NEW YORK -- There is, as I write this, the sound of rain drumming the pavement of Seventh Avenue. Taxicab headlights move quietly through the city night. The hotel room window is open, late October is blowing in, and I know this. They are out there somewhere, the baseball ghosts, dancing in the water.
WIMBLEDON, England -- Give me five minutes, that's all I ask. Five minutes alone with Stefan Edberg, in a quiet room, with the door locked. The man has a problem. The man needs an image overhaul. You can't go through life handsome, rich and boring. Steve Garvey already did that.
The game was lost, the season was over, the plane was taking the Red Wings home. It was after midnight. I glanced around. Here was Gilbert Delorme, the defenseman, sitting behind me, saying nothing. Here was Shawn Burr, the center, sitting in front of me, his eyes red from weeping. Here were Dave Lewis, Glen Hanlon, Mike O'Connell and Adam Oates, sitting across from me, dealing cards in a silent game.
PASADENA, Calif. -- He was running for them all, for this Michigan team and for every Michigan team that had come out here and had its face smeared with California egg. Someone grabbed his feet. He broke free. Someone wrapped around his thigh. He yanked loose. Running through the linemen and through the linebackers and through the hands and arms and bodies, breaking free as the ghosts of Wolverines past screamed in a collective "GO! GO! NEVER STOP!"
NEW ORLEANS -- A huge electronic TV screen hovered over the Superdome floor Monday night, like God's eyes, and the players below in this NCAA championship flashed across in glorious motion. This was basketball of the 80's, instant-instant replay. Look up and see yourself dribbling. And as the final minutes evaporated before nearly 65,000 crazed spectators, there was only one question in the house: Who would be the star? Who would be the final face on that massive screen, looking down at us all? No one knew.
LAKELAND, Fla. -- "The weirdest thing," says Jim Walewander, ripping open a miniature box of Cheerios, "was when one of these guys asked me for an autograph. What should I write? 'Good luck in taking my job'?"We are sitting in the dimly lit cafeteria of the Tigers' minor league complex, surrounded by lanky, young baseball players. We are eating breakfast. Actually, Walewander is eating. I am watching."Milk," he says, pouring some onto his cereal. "You got to conserve this stuff down here. You're only allowed one glass per breakfast."
LOS ANGELES -- I usually do not write about the same subject twice in two days, but if Isiah Thomas can fly halfway across the country to explain a 10-second remark, then the least I can do is devote a day's space to the same purpose. Let's get two things straight right now -- which apparently some people missed in the column that appeared here Wednesday. 1) Isiah Thomas is not a racist. And 2) Isiah Thomas, like any one of us, has the right to say anything he wants. To deny either of these statements would be ignorant and incorrect.
CHICAGO -- It was like watching one of your favorite TV shows get canceled.Washington 27, Chicago 13.Bad news, Bears.Yes, America, the air waves are safe once more. No more videos. No more Super Bowl shuffles. No more Taco Bell commercials, if we're lucky. McMahon, Payton, Ditka, the Fridge? All passe now. This is 1987. The Redskins advance, the Bears go back, where? Their caves, I guess.
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.
