Detroit Free Press

Let us pause here for a day in the life of the Tigers' latest hero: Jim Walewander.Uh, that's W-a-l-e-w-a-n-d-e-r.Right. OK. He is a rookie. He has played in 23 big-league games. Here is how he learned he was starting Sunday: Lou Whitaker, the Tigers' second baseman, came in at noon and said he couldn't play. Bad back. The game was 90 minutes away. A call went out from Sparky Anderson's office, a call to arms, a call to destiny. . . . "GET ME . . . WALEWANDER!"

Kathy Ormsby jumped off the bridge. She just jumped. She was running in a college race and she was losing and she was frustrated and suddenly she ran out of the stadium with eight laps to go, ran down a main street, "apologized to God" and leaped off the bridge. She was trying to kill herself. She failed. She landed in a soggy marsh 35 feet below and lay there, paralyzed, until somebody found her.No sadder stories. There can be no sadder stories. That is all I thought when this happened six months ago in Indianapolis. It is all I think even today, the day after Christmas.

CHICAGO -- This is the face of a man confused. This is the face of man of being spun around like laundry. This is my face."Heck of a game last night," someone says."Uh . . . yeah," I answer, quickly flipping open my notepad, "excellent forechecking.""In the baseball game?" he says.Oh. Wrong pad. I sigh. This has been going on all week. You say baseball, I say hockey. I say baseball, you say hockey.

Forgive me. This is not about sports. I promised myself nearly two years ago that if this moment ever arrived and this crazy JOA was approved, I would write this column.It was a Tuesday. I went down to a coffee shop and sat with Dave Lawrence, who, as most of you know, is publisher of the Free Press. He said he had a favor to ask.

BOSTON -- I know you should try to find the up-side in everything. But the word that Pistons' GM Jack McCloskey might be moving on to busier, if not greener, pastures in New York City doesn't seem, at first glance, to have a lot of positive implications for the Pistons.

PAMPLONA, Spain -- They were running toward us, hundreds of men, their faces filled with horror because the bulls were right behind them. I looked anxiously at Pablo, my Spanish guide, whom I had met just hours before in the drunken streets of Pamplona. He had promised me, in broken English: "You run with me, you no die."It was a comforting thought.And suddenly we took off. Somebody screamed. A man next to me went down and was trampled. I glanced to my right and saw a black bull just three feet away. "This is it, this is it, this is it," I heard myself say. . . .

CALGARY, Alberta -- It was over before the second guy even skated. You knew that watching Brian Boitano Saturday night, knew it when, in the middle of the final cyclone twist of a brilliant routine, he jerked his head skyward with a smile that said it was all worth it, all the wait, all the work, everything, because the gold medal was coming, it was just a matter of time.

LAKELAND, Fla. -- And now, for the national anthem. Everyone stood up. The man inside the Marchant Stadium press box pushed the button for the pre-recorded tape. Music, maestro . . . "Ohhh, say can yooourrp---"And silence.The tape was dead. The speakers were blown. And 6,288 people were standing in the Florida sunshine craning their necks to see what was going on.Welcome to baseball, 1986.