"Hey, if I were somebody else, looking at me? I'd think I was an a------ too."-- Bill LaimbeerBOSTON -- Wait. Don't tell me. You hate his guts. He's a stiff, a boor, a spoiled brat, an actor, a loud-mouth; he can't jump, he can't block shots, he runs like a pregnant deer, his nose is pointy, and, when he high-fives, it looks like opening day at nerd training camp."Who cares?" says Bill Laimbeer, sitting across the breakfast table. He reaches over with one of those long arms. "I'm gonna have some of your grapes. Thanks."
He woke up once an hour, always in a sweat."WHO WON GAME 3?"The voice screamed inside his head. He could not answer. Why couldn't he answer? Why couldn't he remember? Who won Game 3?And then Chuck Daly took a breath, in the dark, and suddenly realized where he was and who he was. And why he couldn't answer. This was Saturday night; Game 3 hadn't been played yet.
He will be hitting and hitting and he will never stop. It will be September and Mr. Chet Lemon will have hit in every game."Are you worried about today?" a reporter from Sports Illustrated will ask him, pushing to the front of the media mob. "What if today is the day your streak finally ends?""Gosh, I don't know," Lemon will say, banging the dirt off his spikes. "Yesterday you asked me that, and I got two hits, and the day before you asked me that and I got three hits."
CHARLOTTE, N.C. -- Bombs away. How else do you beat the armed forces? Stop, pop -- drop, drop, drop. The line that really separated Michigan from Navy Thursday night was not the Vegas spread, but the white curve on the court where two points become three. In military terms, U-M held the high ground.Bombs away.
LAS VEGAS -- "The way things are now," sighed Emanual Steward, who has spent his whole life in boxing, "they could take Muhammad Ali out of retirement, set him up to face Mike Tyson, and you know what? By fight time, people would believe Ali could do it."
The breath came out of the dream in such a gush, it surely rippled the waters of the Great Lakes. "They lost?" the crowd seemed to moan, a dying moan, after the Wings fell to Edmonton, 4-3, in the biggest, best and most heartbreaking game of hockey to be played in Detroit in 22 years. "How can it be? They really lost?"They lost. That is the reality. It has to be, because only reality could be that cruel. So close. The Red Wings had been so close in this hot, draining
I would like to welcome each and every out-of-town journalist who has come for this weekend's big Tigers-Blue Jays series. Unfortunately, that would really run up my phone bill. So instead, I offer a gift: a personalized MAP-TO-THE-STARS of the Tigers clubhouse. After all, we don't want you walking into the showers.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Which is why I was on the phone all day Friday, frantically calling Los Angeles. I was searching for the one man who could turn the tide in these American League playoffs, the one man who could give the edge back to the Detroit Tigers.I was searching for . . . George Peppard.But wait. Let me explain. It all began with today's starting pitcher, Walt Terrell, a man I admire for his strength, guts, and the way he balances a chicken wing and a beer while reading the newspaper.
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.
