They say bad news is best delivered through poetry. Actually, I just made that up. But pretending it is true, allow me to wax poetic after the Lions' depressing loss Sunday to the suddenly brown Tampa Bay Bucs.Barry, oh, Barry, oh,Wherefore art thou, Barry-o?We are now two weeks into the Lions' season, the season that was supposed to be the liberation of the Greatest-Halfback-Never-To-Have-A-Fullback, the season of the "organized" coaching staff, the season Sanders' awesome talent would be unleashed in its rightful power.
Somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere fans say "Yay!" but there is no joy in Detroit -- when the Lions play Green Bay.Hey. Whatdya want for nothin'?Hut one, hut two . . . HUDDLE UP!WHO'S IN THIS WEEK: Scott Greene, Marc Renaud, Barry Sanders (lifetime membership), Henry Thomas, Jim (Har-de-har) Harbaugh, Carolina and Dom Capers (doesn't Dom Capers sound like a champagne?), Eddie George, Steve Bono, Orel Hershiser, the fans at Joe Louis, the BIG SCREEN at Spectadium in Troy, and Davey Johnson, who keeps winning, and keeps getting fired.
In defense of my friend and colleague Curt Sylvester -- who I understand is actually picking the Falcons (heh-heh) to win this Super Bowl -- now hear this: That was not Curt on South Beach Thursday night, with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel, gold chains around his neck, a red rose in his thinning gray hair, doing the lambada and yelling at the bouncer, "LET ME IN! I KNOW DENNIS RODMAN! I REALLY DO!"It just looked like Curt.
WHEN HE was small, his mother watched over him.She'd say, "Don't go out without your shoes on....""Put something on your head, it's cold outside....""Make sure to take your vitamins...."Anthony Thomas listened, because he was a good son and good sons always listen. But deep down, he believed, as all kids do, that he was indestructible.Funny. Now it's his coaches who want to believe it. And they watch him almost as closely as Mom.
The fumes were spreading. A fire. It's a fire! The female workers in this clandestine factory began to scream and rush for the windows. A young man carrying a carton of cigarette lighters stumbled into the main room and fainted from the smoke. He dropped his box.It exploded.
ST. GEORGE, Utah -- "Where's the soap?""You don't need it," I was told. "Just wipe yourself with that mitt.""The one with mustard on it?""It's not mustard, it's a mixture of ash, rainwater, sand and juniper berry extracts.""OK. Where's the towel?""You don't need one.""But when I finish showering?""Dry yourself with the other mitt.""The one with ketchup on it?""It's not ketchup, it's moisturizer made with olive oil, gardenias and grapefruit.""Oh . . . that mitt."
ATLANTA -- What does it mean to have a rival? That you hate him? That you envy her? That you study everything he does? That you look the other way and hope that she is studying you?The big pool at the Georgia Tech Aquatic Center was all about rivalries Thursday night, two in particular, one between two men, the other between two women. Within their emotions was the whole spectrum of human competition, splashing quickly into the water.
Philadelphia, we could hate. Philadelphia, we could make fun of. We could start with its soggy soft pretzels, move quickly to the "Rocky" movies, Legionnaires' disease -- then hit 'em with Mitch (Wild Thing) Williams, who served up the mushball that ended the World Series.Pow! Philly would have been easy. Had the Flyers made the Stanley Cup finals, the war between Detroit and Philadelphia would have been a beautiful thing, two great blue-collar sports towns hurling insults up and down the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
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.
