As a man who would like to see a Stanley Cup come to Detroit before Bruce Willis makes "Die Hard IV: My Hair Falls Out," I propose a deal with the city of Birmingham. That is the city in which the Red Wings' goalie, Mike Vernon, lives. Birmingham.Here is the deal:If the Wings reach the Stanley Cup finals, you stop drilling your sewers until they capture the title, OK?Or better yet, how about stopping right now? Today? In the second round of the playoffs? Shut 'em down. I'm serious here.
You could feel the walls closing in, like one of those black-and-white horror movies. Joe Louis Arena was actually getting smaller, tighter, shrinking like a leaky balloon. The Dallas Stars had just scored a fluke goal, the puck had banged in off Bob Errey's skate, and here we were again, first round of the playoffs, first game against an inferior team, it's the third period, and the score is suddenly tied."Oh, God," you could hear the fans moan. If buildings wore collars, the whole place would have been gasping.Except the Red Wings' bench.
One false move. That's all you get now. One false move and they chop your head off, leave you hanging upside down in the spotlight. Too bad, see ya, thanks for joining us in The Public Life. A good man is without his job this morning. He might never coach again, all for a mistake that is made a thousand times every day all over this country. Gary Moeller's crime was not getting drunk and making a fool of himself -- heck, they'd have to fire half the football people in America for that.
Good news from the Home Opener! We saw some impressive arms down at Tiger Stadium!Unfortunately, they were all throwing toilet paper.And pizza boxes. And little plastic magnets. And, oh yes, beach balls. There were, according to one unofficial count, 22 beach balls tossed onto the field in the first inning alone. They bounced around, the game was stopped, security workers scooped them up, and the bleacher crowd roared.Only in the '90s could beach balls become social protest.
First of all, get out of Gary Moeller's head. You don't belong there, neither do I. All these armchair psychiatrists who are rooting around his brain as if it's their personal attic -- "I think he's under too much pressure. . . ." "The eight losses in two years have gotten to him" -- they have no idea what they're talking about and never will.
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.
