Detroit Free Press

Let me give you a date," I say to Bo Schembechler, who is sitting in the big chair behind his desk.He nods OK."Oct. 5, 1963," I say.Nothing."Miami of Ohio beats Western Michigan, 27-19," I say.Nothing."Well? Doesn't that mean anything to you?"He looks confused."Bo, that was your first win as a head coach.""Was it?" he says."Your first win, Bo."He grins. "Oh, yeah," he says.

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. They had lost their coach to a better offer, they had been stiffed two days before the NCAA tournament, but if they had learned anything from Bill Frieder, Papa Hoops, who kissed them good-bye on the late night news Tuesday, it was take care of yourself first, baby.

CHICAGO -- By the end, he was leading them all, his teammates, the fans, even the referees, marching them like a crazed army toward the end of his personal rainbow. Michael Jordan was taking over the game. Bank shot, good! Lay-up, good! Jump shot, good! "Here I am," he seemed to say to the Pistons' defenders, "try and stop me."

This is his first hockey game. He is very excited. He hands his ticket to the attendant at Joe Louis Arena, who hands it back and looks up, and up, and up."Aren't you . . .?" the attendant asks."Wayne Gretzky?" says John Salley.

MUIRFIELD, Scotland -- He was huddled against the wind with his wife and his baby daughter. They were alone, in front of the clubhouse, a few hundred feet from the 18th green, where, at the moment, the fans chanted wildly for the British Open champion: "ON THE GREEN! ON THE GREEN!" they demanded.He should have been the hero. But he was not the hero. Paul Azinger kissed his wife's forehead and looked off beyond the noise, beyond this coastal golf course, beyond the North Sea. He looked off to someplace far away.

The first time I ever saw Walt Terrell, he was sitting against his locker, sucking on a beer. He looked very content, and I did not disturb him.The next 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 to believe that if the clubhouse suddenly exploded into a huge ball of fire, Walt Terrell would lean over and go, "Hey. Did you hear something?"

Just a moment ago, he was dancing. Just a moment ago, he was spritzing champagne on his teammates, laughing with those gap-teeth, shaking his big nasty body and singing "BAAAD BOYS! BAAAD BOYS!" Just a moment ago, Rick Mahorn was the muscle around the heart of the Pistons' brand-new NBA championship team.And now he is gone.

NEW ORLEANS -- Listen, boss. The kid was a professional hustler, I don't care how high his voice was. He had a shoe- shine brush and a jar of polish and he was about nine years old, but he didn't fool me; he was on the make just like everybody else in this city during Super Bowl Week, the biggest, liquor-crazed, money-soaked Pep Rally of the American calendar year. And the little newt had his eye on my shoes, which made me nervous."I betcha I can tell you where you got those shoes," he said."How much?" I said."Five bucks," he said.