IDON'T STARE. I haven't in a long time. When you work as a sportswriter, you get used to seeing famous, large, muscular human beings entering your field of view. Staring is the worst option. Nothing says "outsider" more than a gape.Nonetheless, I stared when I met Wilt Chamberlain. Ogled him like a kid seeing his first Santa Claus. I knew better. Knew it was inappropriate. I still did it. He was that big. Bigger than the normal rules of behavior.
COREY SCHLESINGER was slumped on his knees, head lowered, hands out, like a man who had thrown himself before his Lord and maker, asking for forgiveness. Forty yards behind him, the San Diego Chargers were celebrating his gift, a fumble that came into the arms of cornerback Darryll Lewis, who ran it in for a clinching touchdown.It was more than a mistake. It was a trip back in time. In one play, the 1999 Lions were stripped of their new identity as the NFL's underdog winner, and were redressed as the Franchise That Couldn't Shoot Straight.
LOOK, THERE'S your father, sitting in the rightfield seats, handing you a hot dog and telling you be careful, don't get mustard all over your shirt. And over there, near the third-base line, that was your grandma, holding her little pencil and writing names delicately in her scorecard, "Kaline, RF, Horton, LF, Freehan, C . . ."And out there, in the bleachers, wasn't that your first girlfriend, looking the way she did back then, her hair in a ponytail, her eyes feigning interest as you pointed out the players and proudly quoted their statistics?
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.
