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?
SHE AWAKENS today as she always has, her lid open to the sky, her grass stretching for sunlight. But this time, there is something in the autumn air, something final, something sad. Like a fading belle of the ball, she seems to sense it, yet ignores it. This will be the last morning of her baseball life. She knows it. She inhales proudly and raises her blue and white chin to the morning light."Are you ready?" the city seems to ask."Ready," Tiger Stadium sighs.
Once again, the eternal question arises: "You call that art?"This time, the questioner is Rudy Giuliani, the mayor of New York City, who is so incensed by a new exhibition that he is threatening to take over the museum.And this time the art in dispute involves the Virgin Mary, which has long been a favorite of the masters, and elephant poop, which has not.
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.