You've heard about the loneliness of the long-distance runner. You never hear about the loneliness of the departed quarterback. But Brian Griese discovered who he was only when he was forced to be alone. Somewhere in the middle of running steps at the track stadium, in a self-imposed training torture, as his breath balled in his chest and sweat rolled down his temples, he could see, a half a mile away, the Michigan team that he no longer belonged to, working out together, having fun.And Griese heard his voice.This is what it said:
Lindsey Hunter tried. Man, he tried everything. He bumped him. He thumped him. He put a hand in his face, he put a hand near the ball. He pressured him and harassed him and breathed on him and forced him into the air in an awkward, falling-back fashion, the way a man is forced off a cliff.And it didn't matter.
It is not my place, as someone who can barely tackle my dog, to tell Wayne Fontes what he should do with a football team that just crushed the Cleveland Browns like a tortilla.But I'll do it anyhow.He should chew them out.Not terribly. Just enough to correct some mistakes that were made in Sunday's otherwise glorious afternoon of indoor football. You may think this is nasty. You may think my timing is wrong. But I remember a certain Pistons coach with neatly coiffed hair who said the time to get after your team is when things are going well.
The woman was murdered, stabbed 22 times, the knife left ghoulishly in her mouth. Police investigated. They arrested the boyfriend. A dental "expert" said the boyfriend's teeth matched a bite mark on the woman's face.The accused was put in jail. The door was shut. The light disappeared. At a quick glance, it seemed that justice was done.
'Thank you for calling 'Political Ads 'R' Us,' your one-stop shopping service for political campaigns. Press 1 to hear our menu of ads."Beep."If running for Congress, press 1."Beep."If you are the challenger, press 1."Beep."To hear a sample ad, press 1."Beep.
So this is how you make history. You wait until after the midnight hour, double overtime, when the voices are gone and even the sweat glands are exhausted, then send a young Russian -- whose last name is easier to pronounce than his first -- charging down the ice, have him wind up and fire and . . . bingo! With a game so exhausting it took two days to play, the Detroit Red Wings finally jumped the moat and are outside the castle, banging on the door with an octopus.Knock, knock, Stanley.Guess who's coming for dinner?
Although I live in the Midwest, I try to keep up with what's happening on the coasts. You can bet if a hot trend develops in New York or Los Angeles, a few years later we are mimicking it here in the heartland.For example, in the '70s, we didn't know what therapy was, and by the '80s, everyone had a shrink. Just like LA.Or remember a few years ago, when you could buy bagels only in supermarkets, and now you can't drive half a mile without a bagel shop that sells 15 flavors. Just like New York.
NAGANO, Japan -- "Come, Alberto, we take walk.""Si, Mitchi," Alberto Tomba says. "We take walk." I pat him gently on his shoulder, and we move along the mountain path, the cold morning wind shaking snowflakes from the trees."Vino, Alberto?" I say, taking a flask from my satchel."No, Mitchi, grazie," he says."Panna?" I say, taking a roll from my pouch."No, Mitchi, grazie.""Dolce?" I say, offering a candy bar."No, Mitchi." He pats his growing stomach. "I am still in training, si?"
Mitch Albom writes about running an orphanage in impoverished Port-au-Prince, Haiti, his kids, their hardships, laughs and challenges, and the life lessons he’s learned there every day.
