Detroit Free Press

You could hear him coming from miles away, the roar of his engine spitting down the gravel road. Noise meant speed, and to a supercharged, grease-under-the-fingernails racer like Chad Schlueter, speed was what life was all about. His family would listen from the kitchen and they'd hear his truck and its eight-cylinder thunder -- rrrrrrRRRRRRMMM! -- and they'd grin and say, "Chad's home." Some nights his sister Nicole, who adored him the way only a younger sister can, would lie awake until she heard his rumble. "Then I knew he was safe," she says, "and I could sleep."

Wherever you go in football, fans stick up their fingers and yell, "We're No. 1." They wave at TV cameras, at passing cars, at each other. Over and over. Their favorite digit, high in the air. "We're No. 1!"

It began with my pockets.My pockets were always stuffed. My pockets bulged. The inside of my pockets looked like the bottom of an office trash basket. Small pieces of paper stuck to smaller pieces of paper. Receipts wrapped around notes folded into business cards -- all crushed into a shapeless wad that engorged my left and right pant legs. It looked as if I traveled with tuna sandwiches in my jeans.

The Wall Street Journal isn't usually a place for sports news, so I was surprised to find a picture of pitcher Tom Glavine on the front page the other day. Intrigued, I read the story, which proved to be about Glavine's plans for his death and his money -- or, better put, where does his dough go after he does?

PHILADELPHIA-- As reporters gathered outside the Lions' locker room after yet another early-season loss, they pulled out their notepads and prepared to face the players. One guy looked around and mumbled, "Anyone got any new questions I can use?"It was a grim but accurate statement about pro football in Detroit. Same questions. Same answers. Same dull toothache. The Lions, under Wayne Fontes, play their games the way they play their seasons -- too casual at the start, a mad rush at the end. Almost always, they come up short, talking about "next week."

By now, Michigan fans have worked up a healthy lather of hatred for Penn State -- its boxy uniforms, its middle-of-nowhere location, its consistent dominance.After all, on Saturday Penn State tries to take what Michigan wants -- an undefeated season, a Rose Bowl, maybe a national championship. And as a writer in the land of maize and blue, I, too, would like to work up an angry boil for these Nittany Lions. What is a Nittany, anyhow? Is it like a ninny? A nitpicker? A nitwit?See, I'm trying to get into the hate.But I can't. Not fully. For one reason.

One by one, in moments like these, he pulls us back into his rooting section. Here was Sergei Fedorov Thursday night, second period, the game dangerously close, chasing a loose puck, accelerating until he gathered it in, then juking on the Phoenix defender, Gerald Diduck, who fell to the ice just trying to keep up. Keep up? It was like trying to bottle a hurricane. Sergei curled past the fallen player as if racing a lawn mower around a tree stump, then glided until the perfect angle on the goalie came into his crosshairs.

Last week, the bosses of baseball said they were thinking about selling ad space on the players' sleeves. This sent baseball lovers into a twitching, neurotic frenzy."Not the uniforms!" they protested. "Those uniforms are sacred!"Personally, I don't understand how the uniform is sacred when the player is paid by a corporation, the stadium is named after a bank and the scoreboard keeps flashing commercials.Besides, why should a baseball player's arm be different? Every other inch of the country is sponsored by somebody.Take a typical American day.