By the time you read this, I will be home. At least I should be home. On a book tour, you never know. I might be stuck in a St. Louis radio station, between Oasis records.Which is not an exaggeration. There I was, out on tour for "Tuesdays With Morrie" -- which is a small, inspirational book about an old man who is dying talking to a young man about what's really important in life -- so naturally I was ushered into an FM alternative rock station, where a disc jockey introduced me by fading down the volume on -- I'm not kidding here -- the new Oasis single.
MEMO TO: Bobby RossFROM: William Clay Ford, OwnerEureka, Bobby! I think you've found it.Remember that team you talked about when I hired you? The kind of team you wanted to build here, the kind that hits and makes plays and beats teams it's not supposed to beat? Freeze it right there, Bobby, my boy. Freeze it on this victory against the Packers. You're onto something here. As my granddaddy said, "I think they'll buy this model."
Today should be a sellout. Tiger Stadium should be rocking with noise and fans should wave painted bedsheets that read "TRAM AND LOU FOREVER." There should be network TV announcers hyping the streak, telling viewers, "What you see this afternoon may never be seen again, two players who started their careers on the same day and played beside each other ever since, 19 seasons, one team, longer than any shortstop and second baseman combo in American League history. . . ."
NAGANO, Japan -- "I hate to be negative, but this was a complete waste of time."-- Keith Tkachuk, after Team USA was eliminatedBy the time you read this, our red, white and (mostly) blue hockey team will be on its way home, its sticks between its legs. Not only did our men fail to outshine the rest of the world at these Olympic Games, they didn't even outshine their U.S. female counterparts, who captured the gold in splendid fashion.
The Last True Sports Fan was ready to die. He stood on the bridge, peering down into the icy waters. His hood was up, his coat was long and tattered. I recognized him by the tattered baseball glove and the broken transistor radio still hooked to his ear."Stop!" I yelled, running from my car. "Don't jump!""Why not?" he whispered.His face was old and sad. There were faded trading cards in his pockets and a cardboard sign that read "Go Dodgers!" under his arm. The word "Brooklyn" had been crossed out. "Have you got any money?" I asked.
"He's human, but not by much." Todd Woodbridge, on Pete SamprasQuick, somebody, get the man a rival. A foil. An enemy. A villain with a sword. Get him a Wilt Chamberlain for his Bill Russell, a Pharaoh to his Moses, a Lex Luthor to his Superman. Otherwise, Pete Sampras, the greatest tennis player we have ever seen, may skip over our horizon without anyone realizing what a remarkable talent he truly is.
Ienter the Red Wings locker room and come to the head coach's office. I tense my shoulders. I clench my fists. I am prepared for a lecture. I am prepared for an argument. It is the new hockey season, and I am ready for whatever flames come flying from the famous coach's mouth.I poke my head in the door. I close my eyes.I open my eyes.Nobody here."No Scotty?" I say."No Scotty," someone says.
A few years ago, in writing the book "Fab Five," I discovered that Steve Fisher had paid a friend of Juwan Howard's a tidy sum to coach at Fisher's summer camp. This stunned me. Hiring this friend -- who then brought young Juwan to Ann Arbor as a camper -- and even interviewing this friend for a coaching position at the University of Michigan, was, to me, unseemly, and perhaps an NCAA violation.So one night, at Fisher's house, I confronted him about this incident. He was uncomfortable, admitted what he'd done, but said, "It happens all the time in college basketball."
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.
