MINNEAPOLIS -- Somewhere, Jack Morris was grinning. Somewhere, Doyle Alexender popped a beer and nodded sympathetically. Somewhere, Mike Henneman, Frank Tanana, Willie Hernandez -- all the Tigers, probably -- gave a sigh and a look that could be summed up with four words: "Have fun, St. Louis."Have fun. Your turn. What took place in the fourth inning of Saturday night's deafening World Series opener may have been historic, a surprise, a bomb, but it was a painfully familiar explosion to Detroiters. Seven runs? Did the Twins really score seven runs in one inning?
He was last in line for introductions, not by choice, but because the Red Wings knew that when the announcer called his name, you wouldn't be able to hear anyone else's."NO. 29 GILBERT DELORME . . . " boomed the voice, working its way down the list."NO. 34 JEFF SHARPLES. . . . "
OAKLAND, Calif. -- The fun begins when he steps off the bag. His spikes in the sand make no sound, and yet you swear you can hear each new footstep, like horseshoes on concrete. One step. Two steps. He's three steps off and leaning now. . . . Surely the pitchers hear this. Surely the catchers hear it, too, like a pulse, like a telltale heart. Rickey Henderson makes everybody nervous.
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.
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.
