It was an ocean town, where people strolled barefoot on the boardwalk, ate saltwater taffy, and rode the Ferris wheel on a grimy promenade called the Steel Pier. Those who lived there worked in food joints, small hotels, or as jitney drivers. They made seaside wages, which were low, and many older residents did not work at all. It was hardly a boomtown, but it had its charm. Poor charm, perhaps. It became a poor place. A poor place that wanted to be rich.It turned to casino gambling.The town was Atlantic City.
HAMILTON, Ontario -- The funny thing about these Dream Team performances: It's damn hard to tell who won. Is it the team with the long faces, answering questions about a disappointing night? Or the team waving little flags and blowing kisses to its fans?
DRYDEN -- "May I see the bird, please?"I actually yelled this. I know. It is not a sentence you can picture me yelling. It is not a sentence you can picture anyone yelling, except maybe Prince Charles or Ace Ventura, Pet Detective. "May I see the bird, please?" And that's not all. Here is the whole phrase:"May I see the bird, please?" . . . BANG!Blown to pieces.
PRYOR, Mont. -- These are grown men talking:"HO, CATTLE! . . . yo, cattle, yo, cattle! . . . EEEEE YUTYUTYUT! . . . move, you no-goods . . . AGGAGAGAGAGA! . . . HO, CATTLE! YO, CATTLE!"This is not normal conversation. Then again, we are talking to cows. Not we, exactly, because I am on a horse with my mouth open in utter disbelief. But the other people here at the Schively Ranch are instructing the cows to -- in cowboy talk -- git.Git?
Nothing for nothing. That's the bottom line of the Bob Probert equation. You watch him walk out the door now, motorcycle helmet under his arm, off to make big cash and who knows what trouble someplace else, and all you can do is shake your head and say what a mess, what a waste, what an ending. For all the stupid sympathy the Red Wings gave this guy, all the excuses, the lying, the coddling, the protection, the rehab -- not to mention the money -- in the end, he gives them his worst season and walks freely out the door, thanks mostly to their mistake. Nothing for nothing.
It's true, as a cop, I have plenty of weird days. But this was the weirdest. The chief calls. Wants me to interrogate a ball and a bat. I'm not kidding. A ball, a bat, and me. Down at the station. Under the hot lights."All right," I says, opening my notebook, "Mr. Bat, we'll start with you. The report claims you were kidnapped.""That's right," the bat says. He talks like he's ready to hit something. "In the middle of the game, some guy pops out of the ceiling, grabs me, and hides me in the venting system.""You must have been scared."
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.
