OAKLAND, Calif. -- He was doing everything he could do, everything he could think of. The Dodgers got someone on base, he struck somebody out. The Dodgers tried to rattle him, he struck somebody out. Bob Welch was mowing them down and waiting for support, mowing them down and waiting for support. His teammates, the suddenly punchless Oakland Athletics, were giving him nothing to sit on in this Game 3 of the World Series and all he could do was go back out and keep throwing.
BOSTON -- "Come out, come out, wherever you are," I coo at the Boston Garden walls.Silence."Come out, come out, wherever you are. . . . "They are in here somewhere. I know it. Those ghosts or leprechauns or pixies or whatever you call them, the invisible spirits that ensure the Celtics never lose a crucial game in this building. They are in here. I have come to lure them out."Look what I've got! . . . " I sing, waving a piece of green cheese. "Yoo hoo! Little sprites! Look what I've got!"Silence."Little spri-i-i-ites! . . . "
INGLEWOOD, Calif. -- Wouldn't it be funny if beneath that crusty exterior, those dagger eyes, those tightly crossed arms that look as if they'll squeeze the heart from his chest, beneath those throaty screams, that pounding on the table, the slap on the forehead as he collapses in his chair, beneath the pacing feet and the churning stomach and that look to the heavens whenever Dennis Rodman makes a boo-boo that seems to say, "Why me, Lord? What did I ever do to you?" -- wouldn't it be funny if beneath all that, Chuck Daly was really . . . an optimist?
OAKLAND, Calif. -- He was doing everything he could do, everything he could think of. The Dodgers got someone on base, he struck somebody out. The Dodgers tried to rattle him, he struck somebody out. Bob Welch was mowing them down and waiting for support, mowing them down and waiting for support. His teammates, the suddenly punchless Oakland Athletics, were giving him nothing to sit on in this Game 3 of the World Series and all he could do was go back out and keep throwing.
BOSTON -- "Come out, come out, wherever you are," I coo at the Boston Garden walls.Silence."Come out, come out, wherever you are. . . . "They are in here somewhere. I know it. Those ghosts or leprechauns or pixies or whatever you call them, the invisible spirits that ensure the Celtics never lose a crucial game in this building. They are in here. I have come to lure them out."Look what I've got! . . . " I sing, waving a piece of green cheese. "Yoo hoo! Little sprites! Look what I've got!"Silence."Little spri-i-i-ites! . . . "
INGLEWOOD, Calif. -- Wouldn't it be funny if beneath that crusty exterior, those dagger eyes, those tightly crossed arms that look as if they'll squeeze the heart from his chest, beneath those throaty screams, that pounding on the table, the slap on the forehead as he collapses in his chair, beneath the pacing feet and the churning stomach and that look to the heavens whenever Dennis Rodman makes a boo-boo that seems to say, "Why me, Lord? What did I ever do to you?" -- wouldn't it be funny if beneath all that, Chuck Daly was really . . . an optimist?
LOS ANGELES -- And here comes Richard Pryor. He walks over, grabs John Salley's hand and begins to shake it. A photographer requests a picture, and the two men turn toward the camera."Spider maaan," says Pryor, looking not at Salley but straight at the lens, "you Detroit guys are taking care of business.""Yeah, we are," says Salley, also looking straight ahead. "You're kickin' some butt," says Pryor."Thanks, Richard.""Takin' care of biddd-ness!""Yeah, Richard.""I lost 50 bucks on you, man.""Sorry, Richard."Click, click.
SEOUL, South Korea -- So let me tell you what happened yesterday. I mean today. I mean . . . tomorrow. No. Wait. Do I? Forget it. It wasn't that good a story.Welcome to Korea, home of the Summer Olympics, where you never really know what time it is, but if you ask enough people, you definitely won't know what time it is. You will, however, end up with lots of business cards, which you can give to other people, and maybe one of them will have a watch.
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.
