Detroit Free Press

FANS CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF LIGHT-HITTING OZZIE

FANS CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF LIGHT-HITTING OZZIE

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!"
IORG SAW SETINY COMING AND WENT OUT TO MEET IT

IORG SAW SETINY COMING AND WENT OUT TO MEET IT

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!"
THE SPOTLIGHT FORGIVES ALL FOR THAT KIDDER, ANDUJAR

THE SPOTLIGHT FORGIVES ALL FOR THAT KIDDER, ANDUJAR

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.
WHAT GAME? ALL DETROIT SAW WAS GIBSON’S PAIN

WHAT GAME? ALL DETROIT SAW WAS GIBSON’S PAIN

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.
A JOLLY VISITOR REMINDS US THERE’S POETRY IN SPORTS

A JOLLY VISITOR REMINDS US THERE’S POETRY IN SPORTS

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,
HUNDREDS DIE IN SAN FRANCISCOA FESTIVE ATMOSPHERE RIPPED APART

HUNDREDS DIE IN SAN FRANCISCOA FESTIVE ATMOSPHERE RIPPED APART

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.
‘BO’TEMPER . . . TEMPER

‘BO’TEMPER . . . TEMPER

This week the Free Press will run exclusive excerpts from Bo Schembechler's new autobiography, "Bo," co-authored with Free Press sports columnist Mitch Albom. The book details Bo's life, career and criticism of college football today. In the first excerpt from "It's Not Temper, It's Coaching," Bo explains his reputation.If you believed all stories about me, you'd think I was the toughest, meanest b------ that ever lived.Not true.You'd think I had a temper made of lighter fluid. Not true.
THE FUNERAL OF THE LOGOS — IT’S A SIGN OF THE TIMES

THE FUNERAL OF THE LOGOS — IT’S A SIGN OF THE TIMES

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 . . . "

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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