Well, I lost them. All 60 songs. I don't know where I put them. They could be under a sock. They could be behind a credit card in my wallet.Sixty songs. Gone like that. That's what I get for living in the era of shrinking music.See, kids, once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far, away -- the 20th Century -- music came on big discs called 78s. They were heavy, solid things. You could bang a nail with them or throw them like a Frisbee. Odd Job could flick one and take someone's head off.Who is Odd Job, you ask?That is why you're kids.
THERE GOES the franchise player, out the door, headed for Space Mountain. What began with great fanfare six years ago -- a press conference, smiles for the cameras, a new uniform, a promise of a long-term future -- ended with one late-night phone call Thursday from Grant Hill, a phone call that should have come days earlier, a phone call that, truth be told, should not have been a call at all, but an in-person meeting, if only out of respect.
WIMBLEDON, England -- It was raining lightly. Todd Martin wanted to keep playing. Andre Agassi did not. So when chasing down a forehand, Agassi slipped, and let himself go down like a Shakespearean soldier. He lay on the grass as if he'd been shot.The crowd hooted. Agassi remained flat for several seconds. Finally, his point made, he slowly rose and wiped his leg.Sure enough, the official came out and suspended the match.
WIMBLEDON, England -- "Can you read that?" I ask the woman behind the counter."Let's see," she says, fingering the little pink paper. She squints."My handwriting," I say, "it isn't . . .""Not to worry. I've seen worse."She finally smiles. "OK. How much do you want to wager on . . ." she squints again "...Serena Williams?""How much?" I say. "Uh . . ."
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.
