NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. -- His phone number was easy enough to find. He still lives in southern California, same house, same patio, same swimming pool. Someone said he was working on a book. I dialed the seven digits.For the last column of 1987, I wanted to talk with the year's biggest goat."Al Campanis?" I said."Speaking," said the voice.
THE LIVE ALBOM* My car, World War III, Chuck Long.* Three things that won't start on Sunday. * Oh, I get it. You win the Super Bowl, you get to wear sunglasses. You win the Cy Young award, you get to wear sunglasses. I get it.
WASHINGTON -- He was sitting in the grass near the 30-yard line, his head drooped, shaking in disbelief, even as the Redskin defenders danced around him in victorious glee. Chuck Long had just tried one of the simpler things in football, throwing away a pass, and he had missed the target. The target was the ground.The ground?
What lousy timing. Here it was, four in the afternoon, the heat of the pennant race, the Tigers were playing in a few hours, and Lance Parrish was sitting inside a Detroit coffee shop across the street from Henry Ford Hospital."How are you feeling?" a waitress asked."Coming along," he said, "I guess."
CHICAGO -- It was over in an accident, a freak, a mini-moment that was here then gone, so fast that Shawn Burr couldn't really remember how it took place. But now, in the crowded locker room, that was all anyone wanted to know."Did you see it coming?" someone asked."I sort of did," he answered, smiling."Did you mean to knock it in?" someone yelled."I was just trying to get out of the way," he said."Where did it hit?" came the question."On the glove," came the answer."Which hand? Which hand?" they hollered.
TURNBERRY, Scotland -- Yes, I admit it. The very first thing I did, after driving two hours to this craggy coastal golf course, past the cliffs and the firth and the moist green countryside, and the cows and the sheep and the Scottish man in the plaid skirt -- not that I think skirts are bad for men, necessarily, but why plaid? -- the very first thing I did was get onto the fairways of this 115th British Open and see if I could find Jack Nicklaus.I know, I know.
MINNEAPOLIS -- He stood alone on the mound, glaring at the hitters, the roar of 55,245 frenzied fans ringing in his ears. Up came his leg, back went his arm, with a whiplash twist the ball was coming home. . . . Coming home. That was the theme, wasn't it? Jack Morris was coming home. He grew up here. Across the river. He was pitching Thursday night at the Metrodome before his parents, uncles, aunts, cousins. . . . "BIG DEAL!" the sellout crowd seemed to roar. Tonight he was the enemy. Tar him.
We could make it a movie. It might work. Call it "The Natural II: The Kirk Gibson Story." Redford plays the lead. Or maybe Don Johnson -- he's already got the whiskers. We open with flashbacks. Gibson as a child. Hitting a Wiffle ball. Breaking a window. Kissing a pretty girl. Gibson at college. Smacking home runs. Running with a football. Kissing a pretty girl. Gibson as a Detroit Tiger. Swinging a mean bat. Stealing bases. Leading the club to the 1984 World Series, where -- we need slow motion for this -- he hits a dramatic home run in the final game and leaps for joy. Music swells.
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.
