It's over! It's all over! The Pistons win the NBA championship, the seventh game of the final series, and the sellout crowd at the Pontiac Silverdome is screaming, delirious, dancing in the aisles. And here comes Isiah Thomas, the hero of the game, bursting into the locker room. And there he goes. Out the back door. The back door?
ROSEMONT, Ill. -- All right. Quit laughing. So I swore I'd never attend another Arena Football Game. So what? This was the championship, for Pete's sake. And a Detroit team was in it. Where's your spirit?
NEW YORK -- There's a broken heart for every light on Broadway, and this morning there are a few million more.Bye-bye, Boris Becker.See ya next year, when you're old enough to drink.Yes, meine kinder, it's sad but true -- Boom Boom went bust bust, as Boom Booms will do.It happened here at the U.S. Open, just one round before the West German's much-anticipated showdown with John McEnroe -- the No. 1 player in the world -- which CBS had planned to televise Wednesday night in glorious prime time.
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.
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.
