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.
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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?"
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"Right now, I'm in awe of myself." -- Mark McGwire, after Sunday's gameThat was no home run, that was an exclamation point.Mark McGwire's final rocket shot of the season -- which launched on the last Sunday in September, traveled more than 370 feet, and landed in a leftfield box at Busch Stadium, plopping into a group of partying lab researchers -- was more than McGwire's 70th of the year. It was more than the all-time record. It was more than nine better than Roger Maris, whose mark they said might never be broken.
It is not my place -- as a man who needs a month to grow a five-o'clock shadow -- to ask why Red Wings players are suddenly sporting the same facial hair. But I'll do it anyhow. Someone has to. I mean, if everyone in your office suddenly came to work looking like Magic Johnson, you'd ask, "What's going on?" Wouldn't you?So what's going on?"I don't know," says Aaron Ward, rubbing his mustache. "I just grew mine because you're supposed to.""Don't ask me," says Darren McCarty, scratching his beard. "I don't know who started it."
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.
