The Last True Sports Fan was ready to die. He stood on the bridge, peering down into the icy waters. His hood was up, his coat was long and tattered. I recognized him by the tattered baseball glove and the broken transistor radio still hooked to his ear."Stop!" I yelled, running from my car. "Don't jump!""Why not?" he whispered.His face was old and sad. There were faded trading cards in his pockets and a cardboard sign that read "Go Dodgers!" under his arm. The word "Brooklyn" had been crossed out. "Have you got any money?" I asked.
On the day after Christmas, when many Americans trade in their unwanted merchandise, the Lions traded in their coach, Wayne Fontes.There will be no refund.The Lions get nothing back for this wasted year, a year in which a truly talented team finished dead last in its division. They get nothing back for any of the eight seasons in which they may have been good enough to contend for a title, but were outsmarted, out-prepared or simply too confused by the Fontes regime to win.
The Lions play their last game of the season tonight, and then we find out just how much Christmas spirit Wayne Fontes can count on.Fontes and owner William Clay Ford have always had a good relationship, but a season like 1996 could make Romeo and Juliet sleep in separate bedrooms.So perhaps Wayne is looking to tweak Mr. Ford's holiday cheer. Why, I can just envision their meeting Christmas Eve, when Wayne will suggest -- before they do anything rash -- that they share a few Christmas carols.Christmas carols?
Since you can't bring up a racial issue in this country without whites running to one side and blacks running to the other, let me try a different angle on this Ebonics idea.If I were black, I'd be insulted.
Deshawn Chatman was tired of watching his mother do crack, tired of the smell, the little white pellets, the way she lit up from the four-burner stove in their kitchen. He was tired of finding her incoherent on the couch, her eyes glassed over, too high even to speak to him. So one day last spring he quit the thing he loved the most, the Cooley High basketball team, and he walked the few blocks to his small, decaying, red brick house on the northwest side of Detroit.
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.
