THE SPARTANS left for the Final Four on Wednesday night, most of them thinking glory and championships. One of them was thinking about the bus ride. And the plane ride. And the locker room.And it makes him nearly as happy as hitting a winning jumper."I may run home and get my camcorder, just to film all the little stuff," he says.
You can't buy a ticket to the Academy Awards. You must be invited. So I have been waiting. I check the mailbox every day. Nothing. And since the awards are tonight, I'm assuming once again, through no fault of my own, that I am not on the list.But this year, I am doing something about it. I am holding my own Oscars.That's right. I have decided that, with the exception of Jennifer Lopez's dress, whatda they got that I ain't got?
Time after time, their best hope went into the belly of the beast. Time after time, he came away bloody. Here was Mateen Cleaves, the heart of the Spartans, driving into the Syracuse defense, twisting, leaping, rolling up a shot and -- swat! Rejected. Another drive, a fast break this time, surely now he's going to scor-- swat! Blocked again, into the hands of a Syracuse player, into the hands of another Syracuse player, into the hands of another Syracuse player who jammed it home for a big lead.
OH, SURE, that might have been fun. Different girlfriend every week? Being a "player" on the party scene?Might have been fun. Just wasn't him. Not A. J. Granger. When he arrived as a freshman at Michigan State, he already had a high school sweetheart. And after he graduates in a couple of months, he's going to marry her. Same girl."The other guys on the team can't believe it," he admits. "They keep saying to me, now you got four months left as a single man, now you got three months left . . ."
ISEE BIG things. I see alley-oops and thunder jams. I see blocks that swoop like the hand of God. I see liftoff from the foul line, astronaut hang time, two-fisted dunks that leave the rim in need of medical attention. I see tip-ins, put-backs, "gimme-that-ball" rebounds, so high he could spray paint his name on the backboard.I see a future of big nights, big numbers.I see Jason Richardson.And he is sitting on the bench.
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.
