Walt Terrell walked into the clubhouse Thursday and there was no applause, no gathering mob, no ribbons around his locker. He was Mr. Almost. Almost pitched a no-hitter the night before. Almost made history. Almost did what no Tiger had done at Tiger Stadium in 34 years. Almost."Did you at least get to celebrate with your wife and kids?" someone asked him."No, they're down in Kentucky," he said. "They left yesterday morning. "
At the buzzer, they hugged each other. Isn't that the right reaction? You're happy, you hug each other. You're grateful, you hug each other. Joe Dumars was hugging John Salley and coach Chuck Daly was hugging assistant coach Dick Versace and Isiah Thomas was hugging Adrian Dantley at midcourt, as the crowd mobbed them both, hugging as if they'd never let each other go.
"I have waited each year for that moment. . . . I have watched for that miraculous synthesis. . . . When it comes, I look around my field, I look at my boys, and I want to shout to the sun: 'By God, I have created a team!"
ST. LOUIS -- They would not leave."OZ-ZIE! OZ-ZIE! OZ-ZIE!"Not one. Not a soul dared move. The game was over, but all 53,708 were on their feet, screaming for him to come back out, and if they had to stand there until the start of next season, damn it, they would."OZ-ZIE! OZ-ZIE! OZ-ZIE!"
KANSAS CITY -- They passed in the tunnel. Charlie Leibrandt was being shuffled out to the field by a horde of interviewers. Dane Iorg was being shuffled back in by a horde of interviewers. They saw one another and leaped above the throngs of microphones to slap their hands in a high five."Hey, Charlie!" Iorg yelled over the din of cheers still echoing outside, tribute to the most dramatic ninth inning the World Series has seen in years. "I knew we would win, man! We couldn't let you lose another heartbreaker. No way!"
ST. LOUIS -- Oh, Joaquin, you knucklehead. You wild man, you. Come on over here and give us a bop on the head, you nut.What a kidder. One day you hate us. Next day you love us. All season long, the media are "a bunch of bleep." Now, in the World Series, you say, "I like you guys. You got to write. That's your job. That's why I'm here talking to you."Ah, J.A., you card. You Card. You Cardinal man.
BOSTON -- He went down on the simplest of plays, a scurry back to first base. But there was a twist to his leg that was unnatural. And the way he hit the ground, like a ribbon wiggling into the dirt. That was unnatural. And the look on his face when he rolled over and grabbed his ankle. That was unnatural too.That was agony. That was pain. And everyone knows Kirk Gibson doesn't show pain unless it's absolutely killing him."Uh-oh," someone said."Wooh, boy," someone added.
Pleeease? Just one story? But the game's on . . . well, OK. Just one.'Twas the night before Christmas, And all through the houses, The cynics were sleeping, so were their spouses, "That's it," they had said, at an earlier meal, "No more sports will we watch, too dirty a deal, Every jock is on drugs, every owner a moron, And each has an ego the size of Lake Huron! Once we loved sports, it was part of us then, But now we will never believe them again, Who needs it?" they'd said, remote control ready, And flicked the TV to something more heady,
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.
