Detroit Free Press

I pick, therefore I am.Hmmm.I have no idea what that means. I just thought it sounded good.

This column caught me by surprise, much the way -- well, much the way a baby catches you by surprise. I was having dinner with some friends for the first time since these crazy NBA playoffs began. I excused myself to call the office. It's a habit I should learn to break."Did you hear about Isiah?" the voice asked."No. What?""His baby was born. A boy."

SAN FRANCISCO -- This was all you needed to see. Second inning. The pitcher at the plate. For cripes sake, not the pitcher, too! Two strikes, two outs, and the guy, Mike Moore, an American League hurler, has only batted once before in his career. He holds the bat like Mary Poppins held her umbrella. A sure out, right?And here comes the pitch.And there goes the ball, to centerfield.And here come the runners.

LOUISVILLE, Ky. -- What could be more American than drinking beer and not showering after a workout? Hey, half my college roommates fit that description. So it's very comforting to find a guy with similar habits right here at the Kentucky Derby. Only the guy isn't American. Nor, when you get right down to it, is he a guy. He is a horse.A British horse.

It was everything they had, every ounce of desire, strength, guts. The Pistons kept the Celtics at bay with three minutes left, Danny Ainge missed a long jumper, but the Celtics got the rebound, Larry Bird missed a long jumper but the Celtics got the rebound, Robert Parish missed, the Celtics again. It was as if destiny was toying with Detroit, ignoring its blood. Two more times the Celtics would miss and get their own crazy rebound. And then Ainge, standing outside the three-point mark, sending an airborne bullet that swished. Through the heart.

What's the difference," someone asks Jack Morris, who is relaxing by his locker, "between a veteran clubhouse and a young clubhouse?"He runs a hand through his hair, leans forward, then says it can best be summed up with a joke. "You might not be able to use it," he warns. "It's a little dirty."No problem. We'll clean it up.

CALGARY, Alberta -- I walked down the corridor of press offices, and knocked softly on the door marked "TASS." It was opened by an older man in a gray coat. "Hello," I said quickly, extending a hand. The man shook his head, pointed at the floor and began babbling in Russian.Trouble, I figured. But I figured wrong. What he was saying, I would learn, was: "We Russians don't shake hands through a doorway; come inside and shake like friends."

One-derful.Marvelous. If they were all like this, the parade already would have started. Here were the Pistons Tuesday night, with all the cobwebs cleared, with full concentration, jaws clenched, shooting eyes narrowed, attacking the National Basketball Association Finals as if they'd been waiting all month, all year, all their lives. Which, come to think of it, they had.