The first time I ever saw Walt Terrell, he was sitting in front of his locker, holding a beer. He looked very content, and I did not disturb him.The second time I saw Walt Terrell, he was in the same position. I did not disturb him.The next 92 times I saw Walt Terrell he was in the same position -- except sometimes the beer was a cigaret or a chicken wing -- until finally, I came tobelieve that if the clubhouse suddenly exploded into a huge ball of fire, Walt Terrell would lean over and go, "Hey. Did you hear something?"
Well, it's Christmas Day, and no doubt many families are hunkering down around the fire, singing a few Christmas songs. Which is nice. Then again, you wonder how those songs might come out if a few familiar faces had their way . . . WHITE CHRISTMAS (as sung by Sparky Anderson)I'm dreaming of a right . . . handerJust like the ones I used to know,One who swings for fencesThat kind of gent is,What I, need much more than snow, oh ho,I'm dreaming of a right . . . handerTo put those lefties in their place,
MIAMI -- It was a call to glory for all of them, as loud as a siren, as unmistakable as their signature. Fourth quarter. Trailing by three. The Super Bowl, the championship of the world on the line.Wake up, men.You're on.
The Pistons were leading Washington by, I don't know, 30 or 35 points, and it was just the second quarter, and all of a sudden someone said, "Hey, look in the corner!" And there, standing against the wall, as the fans walked past him, was the game's leading scorer, Adrian Dantley.
SAN FRANCISCO -- Slowly, they began to clap. First one, then two, then all of them, applauding, cheering, these rescue workers who have been days without a smile, covered in dirt, performing the most gruesome task that humans can be asked to perform: removing the dead. The bodies were mangled. Crushed. Some beyond recognition. And suddenly, miraculously, a heartbeat, a breath of life.A man named Bucky Helm, trapped since Tuesday's earthquake in the wreckage of the Nimitz Freeway.
Until yesterday, the most interesting thing I could tell you about the city of Milwaukee was this: "Happy Days." The TV show. Remember? The Fonz. Richie Cunningham, Howard, Marion? They all lived in Milwaukee. Supposedly. With that little girl, what's her name, Joanie? I think it's Joanie. And Laverne and Shirley. They lived there, too. With Lenny and Squiggy.What a town.
He was lying on a table, with an ice bag on his shoulder and a towel covering his face. Right here. The former Cy Young Award winner. The one-time toast of Detroit. Among the highest-paid relievers in the major leagues.Willie Hernandez, on ice."Ready to talk?" said the visitor. "Sure," he said, not moving, "go ahead."
"Here, look at this."The Pistons' PR man handed me a book that listed all the players in the NBA. He pointed to a special chapter entitled "All-Time Greats."And there was a full page on Spencer Haywood, complete with picture.I looked down at the book, then up at the hardwood court in front of us. Out amidst the squeaking sneakers, and the yells -- "Pick left! Pick left!" -- and the unforgiving thump of the basketball, there he was, in the flesh, sweating and panting with the Pistons' second string, trying to earn a final spot on the 12-man roster.
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.
