NEW YORK -- You say: "What a nice day."I say: "Drop dead."You say: "Can I help with your luggage?"I say: "Drop dead."I am practicing. I am rehearsing my lines. I am following the advice of every general from Napoleon to MacArthur. Know your enemy. Think like your enemy. My enemy is the New Yorker. From now until a week from Sunday. Ten days. Seven baseball games. I am practicing."Call if I can be of service," you say.I say: "Drop dead."
Well, gosh darn it, what are we talking about here? This is a football coach? Darryl Rogers, the guy in the blue shorts and the bony legs and the voice that sometimes sounds disturbingly like Kermit the Frog?
CLEVELAND -- I don't know whether to call it the year or the week, because the 1986 baseball season can be referred to as either one today. But so far this year, or this week, the home run ball is taking a big chunk out of Jack Morris.It happened again Saturday. Morris surrendered a two-run homer in the first inning, pitched masterfully the next six, then gave up another two-run shot and exited. The game was soon lost, 6-2, to the Indians. The Indians? And this time, Morris' name went next to the sad result.
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. -- The bus rolls off the avenue and into the crowded parking lot. The passengers peer out the window. Most of them are muscular young men wearing green satin football jackets. The coach, a round figure with silver hair, stands up in front. "AWRIGHT, GUYS. YOU KNOW WHO YOU'RE GONNA SEE HERE? HUH?"Silence."YOU'RE GONNA SEE MICKEY MOUSE. MY MAN MICKEY."Laughter."AND DONALD DUCK."Laughter."AND . . . AND . . . " He looks for help. "Who's that other guy?""Pluto?"
TORONTO -- The starting goalie, Sam St. Laurent, was lying flat on his back inside the net, his twisted right knee causing horrible pain. The backup goalie, Greg Stefan, who last game was so ill he could barely move, was now tugging on his mask, preparing to come in. The backup to him was . . . was . . . There was no backup to him."How serious do you think Sam's injury is?" someone asked Red Wings general manager Jimmy Devellano, who was pacing nervously inside the Maple Leaf Gardens press box.
LAKELAND, Fla. -- I walk slowly through the Tiger clubhouse, waving hello, then scratching my head. I have seen these players before. And I have not seem them before. I mean, they look familiar. Sort of. That is what I mean. I think. "Kirk?" I say, to the player whose uniform back reads GIBSON. "Kirk Gibson? But I thought--""Sorry?" says Paul Gibson, turning around."Sorry," I say.
TEMPE, Ariz. -- I don't know what they put in the locker-room water out here, but I'm not leaving until I get some.Cactus juice? Iguana blood? Something magical. Must be. For there were the Michigan Wolverines, down 14-3 at halftime of the Fiesta Bowl, and looking meek. Nebraska was whomping them. The thousands of Michigan fans who had flown thousands of miles and endured thousands of hangovers to get up for this New Year's Day kickoff were watching a genuine maize and blue Desert Disaster.
If he plays, he plays. What's the big deal? Personally, I can think of 100 more interesting debates than whether the Lions should unwrap Chuck Long this week or next month. Face it. The guy can throw touchdown passes from now until New Year's. They're still out of the playoffs.But everywhere you turn, you hear it. "When's Rogers going to bench Hipple?" "What's he waiting for?" "Why doesn't he start the kid?"Everybody's talking about Chuck Long. And nobody's talking to him.
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.
