Detroit Free Press

BUCKET SEEMS TO AID HERNANDEZ’S AIM

BUCKET SEEMS TO AID HERNANDEZ’S AIM

LAKELAND, Fla. -- The good news is, Willie Hernandez has rediscovered the strike zone.The bad news is he was only standing six inches away and it wasn't a baseball.It was a bucket of ice water. A large bucket of ice water. He threw it on my head.I should explain.I had just arrived at the Tigers' spring training camp Wednesday from the Winter Olympics in Calgary. I was talking in the clubhouse with pitcher Frank Tanana. And the next thing I know, I am drenched. All over. And Willie is walking away, saying, "Take that, bleeper-bleeper!"
WE AGAIN MAKE OTHERS TIRED OF LOOKING AT U.S.

WE AGAIN MAKE OTHERS TIRED OF LOOKING AT U.S.

MOSCOW -- The flags came out. The cheer began. "U-S-A! U-S- A!" In hockey we had done it. On the track we had done it. In the ice rink we had done it. Now it was women's basketball. The buzzer sounded and Teresa Weatherspoon threw the ball to the ceiling and jumped into a bouncing mob of teammates. The Goodwill Games final was history, and it wasn't even close; 83-60.We had done it again."Why does beating the Soviets mean so much?" someone asked Anne Donovan, the center on the U.S. team, as she waved an American flag.
BUCKET SEEMS TO AID HERNANDEZ’S AIM

BUCKET SEEMS TO AID HERNANDEZ’S AIM

LAKELAND, Fla. -- The good news is, Willie Hernandez has rediscovered the strike zone.The bad news is he was only standing six inches away and it wasn't a baseball.It was a bucket of ice water. A large bucket of ice water. He threw it on my head.I should explain.I had just arrived at the Tigers' spring training camp Wednesday from the Winter Olympics in Calgary. I was talking in the clubhouse with pitcher Frank Tanana. And the next thing I know, I am drenched. All over. And Willie is walking away, saying, "Take that, bleeper-bleeper!"
TRAM FINDS HIS GAME IN A NEVER-ENDING JAM

TRAM FINDS HIS GAME IN A NEVER-ENDING JAM

Alan Trammell swallows a mouthful of water from the fountain, wipes his chin, then plops down on the dugout bench."Listen, I don't want to talk about me, OK? I'll talk about the team, howwe're doing. Anything. But nothing about me."He pauses."I just don't want any features on me. I don't. I'll talk about other things, but not about me."Another pause."OK?" he says, looking over. "All right? Nothing about me, OK?"Slumps are death.
IT’S MORE HEAT THAN LIGHT WHEN LEWIS YELLS ‘DRUGS’

IT’S MORE HEAT THAN LIGHT WHEN LEWIS YELLS ‘DRUGS’

ROME -- There are two things you can count on whenever you hold a big international track and field competition: (1) A lot of medals will be won by communist-bloc athletes; (2) sooner or later, somebody will yell "DRUGS!"All week long at these World Track and Field Championships we've had the former: East Germany and Russia are cleaning up in the medal department. And now we have the latter. "DRUGS!" This from the mouth of Carl Lewis. Where you usually find a foot.
WITHOUT ELUSIVE RECORD, LEWIS IS MERELY WINNING

WITHOUT ELUSIVE RECORD, LEWIS IS MERELY WINNING

INDIANAPOLIS -- Forget about the Grace Jones hairdo and the lip gloss and the sunglasses and his agent's "bigger than Michael Jackson" predictions. When Carl Lewis blows his trumpet at the top of the long jump runway, people still drop what they're doing and watch. So it was that most of the media at these Pan American Games were sitting in the midday heat Sunday, in a nearly sold-out track stadium, as Lewis stripped off his sweats and shook loose those glorious muscles, in another attempt to kill the ghost that lives inside the pit.
TRAM FINDS HIS GAME IN A NEVER-ENDING JAM

TRAM FINDS HIS GAME IN A NEVER-ENDING JAM

Alan Trammell swallows a mouthful of water from the fountain, wipes his chin, then plops down on the dugout bench."Listen, I don't want to talk about me, OK? I'll talk about the team, howwe're doing. Anything. But nothing about me."He pauses."I just don't want any features on me. I don't. I'll talk about other things, but not about me."Another pause."OK?" he says, looking over. "All right? Nothing about me, OK?"Slumps are death.

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.

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