The Michigan basketball players walked slowly to the airport gate, some talking, some joking, some, like Rumeal Robinson, wearing headphones to tune out the world. If you expected anger, grief -- well, there was none. No tears. They had lost their coach to a better offer, they had been stiffed two days before their biggest tournament, but if they learned anything from Bill Frieder, Papa Hoops, who had kissed them good-bye on the evening news, it was to take care of yourself, baby.
I have a friend in Boston. He is very successful. Whenever I visit him, he picks me up at the Boston airport and it is always crowded and we drive on the Boston expressway which is always crowded and we go to a Boston restaurant and wait for a table because it, too, is crowded, and he talks about the new hotels and the new office buildings and theater and concerts and blah, blah, blah, and so I take the ketchup and dump it in his lap. Because the point is this: Boston is getting too big for its own good.Which is where Detroit comes in.
You got the job, kid. The news was hardly a surprise. By the time the press conference began Monday morning, you couldn't find anyone in the state who didn't know Steve Fisher would be named head basketball coach at Michigan. After all, he had just guided the Wolverines to six wins and a national championship. A national championship? No other coach had ever done that here. You got the job, kid.Was there ever a doubt?
INGLEWOOD, Calif. -- In the end, there would be no denying them; they wanted this more than life itself. No more waiting. No more excuses. The Pistons were storming the throne room, grabbing the basketball, stealing it, owning it, banking it off glass, slamming it through the rim, counting the seconds until destiny lifted her veil and gave them that long-awaited kiss, smack on the lips.One-two-three-four.Champions.
You have been waiting for him. I have been waiting for him. It has become the thing to do here in Detroit."When, Chuck, when?" we ask."Soon, folks, soon," we are told. His teammates have been waiting for him. His coaches have been waiting for him. All season long, they have watched with anticipation."When, Chuck, when?' they ask."Soon, men, soon," they are told.
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.
MIAMI -- Cincinnati Bengals linebacker Reggie Williams has one of the most interesting backgrounds among Super Bowl players.Williams, who grew up in Flint and went to Flint Southwestern High, is a Cincinnati city councilman, holds a psychology degree from Dartmouth, was elected NFL Man of the Year in 1986, and attended a state dinner at the White House last year. He has received numerous awards for work with charities and the community.That made Williams, 34, a popular subject for reporters during interviews this week. Some of his comments:
HONOLULU -- Are you sitting down? Good. Let me break your heart.Let me introduce you to your daydream, your fantasy, the thing you should have done when you were 18 years old and you realize only now, as you shovel three feet of snow from around your Plymouth Horizon.Let me give you Joe Piccola.Linebacker, University of Hawaii."Hi," he said, "how ya doin'?"
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.
