Detroit Free Press

BOSTON -- The leprechaun dies. He went stiff at the very moment he usually rises; the final seconds of a Celtics' playoff thriller. The people who filed quietly out of Boston Garden Tuesday night, rubbing their eyes, clearing their hoarse throats, these same people who just seconds before had been at the top of their lungs, sure that the magic was there, well, they were silent now, quiet as a funeral. The championship series was not over. The innocence was. Lakers win. The leprechaun dies. How many times had we seen this before?

PHILADELPHIA -- It was as surprising to the players involved as it was to the fans who were watching Sunday. What was quarterback Randall Cunningham -- who needed only to protect the ball to preserve an 11-10 Philadelphia victory -- doing scrambling for yardage, holding the ball like a pizza delivery?"He's young; he's inexperienced," Lions safety Demetrious Johnson said. "He tries to make things happen, even when he doesn't need to."

They had a mean look all night, a look you would not want to cross. Sweat down their temples, sweat down their arms, sweat dripping off their chins. No smiles. No give. Mean."Backs to the wall," the Pistons seemed to say, reciting their playoff battle cry, as they grunted and pushed and soaked their way to a 111-86 win over the Los Angeles Lakers in Game 4 of the National Basketball Association final. "Backs to the wall. You know what that means?"

Perhaps you noticed it too. Something remarkable. Pick up the newspaper, and under "baseball notes," the entire section is devoted to the winners and losers of salary arbitration cases. At last count it was owners 14, players 12, Wade Boggs in the on deck circle.Funny how things change.1886, a Midwestern sandlot . . ."Son. I'd like you to play for our team.""You guys got uniforms?""Yes.""Where do I sign?" 1926, a city playground . . . "Hey, kid. I seen you pitch. You ain't bad.""Thanks mister."

LOUISVILLE -- The beasts were pawing at the gates."START THEM UP!" someone screamed."WOOOH!" screamed someone else.Only the gates stood between them and mad glory. The beasts were restless. The beasts wanted to run."IT'S TIIIIME!" someone screamed."DO IT!" screamed someone else.A cop checked his watch. There were about 75 cops there, billy clubs by their sides, safe on the other side of the gates, away from these wild animals. The cop with the watch looked up. He nodded.

WIMBLEDON, England -- What you noticed most was the laughter. How often do you hear that during a Wimbledon semifinal? Chris Evert would hit a great shot, and Martina Navratilova would shake her head and chuckle. Then Martina would scoop a volley out of the grass and Chris would drop her racket. And smile. It was not loud. It was not even often. But it was there. Quiet, gentle, familiar.Laughter."Wasn't that a little strange?" someone asked Evert afterward. "For such an intense match? To smile and even laugh at certain moments?"

I study the line sheet. I move my pencil toward my pick. I am picking against the Raiders."Not so fast," says a voice.Who said that?"Never pick against a team that's lost three in a row. They're bound to come back."Well . . . all right, I say.I move the pencil to the Seattle- Washington game. I start to circle Seattle."Not so fast," says the voice.Who is that?"Never pick a team that's won three in a row. They're bound to lose."But you said--"Trust me."

I am not worrying about the Tigers. I am not losing sleep, or chewing my fingernails. I am not placing a Detroit cap next to a string of garlic to ward off evil spirits. I am calm and cool. "But they're in sixth place," my fellow workers say. "How can you not be worried?""Worrying never skinned the cat, boys," I say, leaning back in my chair."Huh?" they say."Forty games," I say. "That's what Sparky Anderson said. Forty games before you can tell anything. And I believe the man."