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,
SAN FRANCISCO -- I am writing this column in the most frightening position I have ever been in, some 200 feet above the ground in Candlestick Park, which just moments ago was shaking as if the entire stadium were on a wagon being wheeled over cobblestone. An earthquake, they call it out here, with some regularity, and even as I type these words, the stadium occasionally rolls -- aftershocks -- with the concrete, the steel supports, everything shaking, as if suddenly there is no such thing as sturdy, not anymore.
The Tiger slowly made his way through the jungle. He'd been traveling for days. It was a sad journey, but he had no choice.Over the mountain. Down the river. Finally, he clawed through some vines and into a clearing.The trees were tall, of white ash, and had "Louisville Slugger" written across their trunks. Old baseballs hung from the branches. The rocks were shaped like bases. And there, around a small campfire, sat a group of cartoon- like characters.A Pirate. An Oriole. A Brave. Two Red Socks. They were moaning softly."No pitching . . . "
SEOUL, South Korea -- Oh, Florence, be for real! Tell us that blazing world record in the 200 meters Thursday was yours and yours alone, that your magnificent sprinter's body is all hard work and dedication, that when you crossed the finish line and waved your hands and beckoned to your husband, Al, to join you in glory, and he lifted you and swung you in his loving arms and the stadium roared with delight -- tell us all that was genuine, real hero stuff, because the Olympics need that right now. In the worst way.
BOSTON -- Listen. I have a trade to propose: Me for Ron Darling. One for one. Here's the deal. Darling, the New York Mets' heartthrob pitcher, gets everything I own. Everything I ever accomplished. Everything I ever laid my eyes, ears or hands on, including my first bicycle. And I get to be him for 24 hours.That's all. Just one day. I do not jest. Everything in the kitty. For 24 hours.
I am getting a little tired of traveling around the country and hearing sports fans say: "Oh, you're from Detroit? How are they doing?" The next person who says that to me, I kick.The fact is, Detroit is doing better than any other sports city in 1987, thank you. And I am sure people in such high- cultured, well-educated places such as New York and Los Angeles would quickly realize this, if they ever stopped shopping.
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.
