I see auto workers against cab drivers. I see Coleman against Koch. I see a Coney dog with onions against a corned beef sandwich with lots of fat.I see Detroit versus New York.Ugly."We beat them three times so far this season," Patrick Ewing said after the Knicks' 100-93 win over the Pistons Wednesday night at the Palace. "We got one more. And we plan to win that one."
ST. LOUIS -- Hoist the guillotines. Polish the blades. We're down to one game again, and it's time to see if the Kansas City Royals finally get their heads chopped off.Of course, anyone who has followed this team since late September knows the Royals seem to gravitate to a disadvantage like Prince does to purple underwear.They had to charge to catch California in their division. They were down 3-1 to Toronto in the American League playoffs before coming back to win in seven. And now, down they are again, this time 3-1 in the World Series.
SAN DIEGO -- A guy with a tape recorder around his neck was crouched low. Above him were at least a dozen long-stemmed microphones. Behind them, TV cameras, humming in unison. And tucked in between, maybe 100 sports writers, craning their necks. The focus of their attention was a chair. Dexter Manley's chair. It was empty."They're interviewing a chair?" someone asked.
HOUSTON -- Because it was Monday and it was cloudy and humid and I was already feeling like a grouch, I figured this would be a perfect time to check in with Bill Laimbeer.Laimbeer, the Pistons' center, is, after all, the kind of guy you can count on for a hard time. Drop dead. See if he cares. He plays his big, stiff game of basketball and goes on, right? Argues with referees, infuriates other players, sticks out that jaw and that pokey nose and goes loping along like a giraffe singing, "Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah."
Sometime today, a plane will land in Toronto, and Red Wings coach Jacques Demers will get off, along with Bob Probert, and they will take a car to a suburban office building.They will walk into a private boardroom. Someone will take their coats. They will shake hands formally, and everyone will sit. Then, the man in charge, perhaps in a deep solemn voice, will give the long-awaited signal.Turn on . . . the TV.And they will watch a hockey fight.
TORONTO -- The post-game food sat in silver trays, warm and untouched. Tigers moved quickly around the clubhouse, tugging their ties, eyeing the exits, hoping to escape without comment. What was there to say?The ghosts that have taken over this American League East race had kissed Toronto and spat at Detroit, deciding that only the worst possible ninth-inning nightmares would suffice. And words certainly weren't going to stop them. Not if five pitchers, nine runs, 11 hits and a grand slam wouldn't.
As the deadline for Kirk Gibson and the Tigers came down to its final minutes, it became clear we were witnessing the end of one story -- and the beginning of another. One that could shake major league baseball down to its very stitches.Why didn't Gibson get a contract offer? Why didn't clubs like the Yankees or the Braves -- who always unloaded the money truck for free agents in the past -- even sniff at him? Or Donnie Moore or Carlton Fisk?The owners claim they got religion, in the fiscal sense. Say they've wised up to the evil temptations of free agency.
I crawl into the attic. I lift the old blanket. There, beneath a dusty program from Super Bowl II, is the oblong-shaped crystal. I put it on the table. It begins to glow. Headlines. I see headlines. Stories. I see stories. Football, 1988.Here we go . . . PONTIAC, Sept. 4 -- The Detroit Lions beat the Atlanta Falcons Sunday, prompting a celebration rarely seen in a season opener. "WE DID IT! WE DID IT!" screamed the Lions players to the crowd of 766 fans at the Silverdome, many of whom stayed for the whole game.Atlanta players seemed confused.
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.
