THE HUDDLE:All right, HUDDLE UP! Throw your arms around one another and lean in. We are here to answer questions from the football weekend. We are here to call the play for next week's games. We are here to--Would you mind getting off my foot?WHAT'S THE PLAY?Wait a minute. I'm thinking.While you're thinking, Huddle, I gotta tell ya, I am so geeked on the Lions! I am psyched! This is the year, baby! We're thunderin'! We're smokin'! We're cookin'! I'm in the ZON --Turn your radio down. Take a sedative.Hey, Huddle, can I get in?
Football is a game that takes hours to play but is defined by seconds. A fumble. A slip. A snap decision. You add those moments together and more than any statistic, they tell you who won. Here was Scott Mitchell, on the ledge of such a moment, late in the game, his debut in Detroit, trailing by a touchdown, his knee throbbing from an earlier collision and the new radio speaker in his helmet squawking like some old Russian telephone.Also, it was fourth down.And they were using their last time-out."Let's pass it," one of the coaches said.
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?
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.
