Detroit Free Press

"We won't have a very long practice today. Just long enough to throw up."--Chuck Daly, Friday morning Adrian Dantley had his feet up on the seat. Bill Laimbeer was asleep with his mouth open. Rick Mahorn sat with headphones over his ears.

MIAMI -- You expect, now and then, to run smack into your conscience. You just don't expect it to happen at the Super Bowl. A game. A gunshot. And, in the land of beach and sun, we suddenly ask ourselves what America is all about.

When they first told him three people were dead, that it was a crime, that when he was finally released from the Pontiac hospital where he now lay, immobile, his head in a brace, his thumb sewn to his hand, he would be charged with manslaughter, this is what Reggie Rogers said: "Why?

KANSAS CITY -- Big men don't cry. That much you learn with your baseball milk. So I guess the idea of a 6-foot-3 home run hitter bawling is pretty much out of the question. Just the same, I keep visualizing Steve Balboni, all 225 pounds of him, returning to his hotel room after the game, stripping down to his undershirt, cuddling up with a bag of Doritos, and weeping.It is not because he is sensitive, which he is. It is not because he speaks with all the volume of a monk, which he does. It is not because, without his cap, he looks like the "before" picture for a hair-weave ad.

We interrupt you, America, to bring this rumbling from the Midwest:Pistons. Wings. Pistons. Wings.Ba-boom.The words create a growing frenzy, like a sparrow's heartbeat, like a Baptistchurch service, like the music from "Jaws." They are on the lips of every auto worker in Dearborn, every lawyer in Birmingham, every elevator-rider in every office building in downtown Detroit.Pistons. Wings. Pistons. Wings.Ba-boom.

They come clanking into the playoffs like some science fiction monster, unbeatable, unstoppable, unkillable. Buh-dump. Buh-dump."Hello," they say, "we are Detroit.""AHHHHHHHHHH!"People scatter. Sirens roar. The police turn on the spotlights to try to blind them into submission. Suddenly they are Godzilla in basketball shorts, the favorites, the invincible army."Excuse us," they say to the people of Boston, "we don't mean to make a fuss. Is this the way to the Garden?""AHHHHHHHHHH!"

EDMONTON -- Melt the ice. This remarkable season is finally over. The Red Wings went down the way they had come up, fighting, scratching, clawing, overachieving, playing better than anyone had dreamed, playing within inches of greatness, within a breath of a miracle. But still a breath away.Over? Over.

BOSTON -- One game for the pennant now. One game left. One more chance for the Boston Red Sox, who, when they needed their steadiest pitching performance of the year, went to their unsteadiest pitcher. Naturally. And true to form in this wacko American League Championship Series, he delivered. Naturally."Did you hear them yelling OIL CAN! OIL CAN!" someone asked Dennis (Oil Can) Boyd, after his team stuffed California, 10-4, behind seven strong innings of his pitching, to force Game 7 of this American League Championship Series.