It is not my place, as someone who can barely tackle my dog, to tell Wayne Fontes what he should do with a football team that just crushed the Cleveland Browns like a tortilla.But I'll do it anyhow.He should chew them out.Not terribly. Just enough to correct some mistakes that were made in Sunday's otherwise glorious afternoon of indoor football. You may think this is nasty. You may think my timing is wrong. But I remember a certain Pistons coach with neatly coiffed hair who said the time to get after your team is when things are going well.
Wherever you go in football, fans stick up their fingers and yell, "We're No. 1." They wave at TV cameras, at passing cars, at each other. Over and over. Their favorite digit, high in the air. "We're No. 1!"
A woman wept. Her sobs echoed through the courtroom, distracting you like someone coughing during a movie. Her voice, raw and broken, cried as the first
BALTIMORE -- He arrived for his last game hours before the first pitch, early Sunday morning, as the fog was breaking up and most people were still in church. He removed his clothes in stages, hanging up his gray sports coat, followed by the tie and the shoes. He pulled his baseball shirt over his dark slacks and socks, and he sat down that way, half-man, half- manager, munching a doughnut and holding the omnipresent cup of black coffee, part of the reason his hands now tremble like a nervous safecracker. The other reason is that he is 61 years old.
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.
