I've seen heavyweight fights go like this: One guy comes out on fire and gets the crowd all worked up. Pow! Pow! His fists are flying, and his opponent takes every shot, the blood spitting from his face, until he looks like he'll go down any moment -- which only excites the aggressor more. Only the opponent doesn't go down. He stays standing. Blow after blow. And finally, the first guy, exhausted from all this punching with no reward, takes a breath, says, "Hey, what's with this lug?"And pow! The other guy knocks him out.
I've seen heavyweight fights that go like this: One guy comes out on fire, he slugs and pounds and gets the crowd all worked up. Pow! Pow! His fists are flying, and his opponent takes every shot, the blood spitting from his face, until he looks like he'll go down any moment -- which only excites the aggressor more. Only the opponent doesn't go down. He stays standing. Blow after blow. And finally, the first guy, exhausted from all this punching with no reward, takes a breath, says, "Hey, what's with this lug?"And pow! The other guy knocks him out.
Think of me as the idolmaker. Think of me as LIFE magazine knocking on the door.I have come for Tim Cheveldae.I am ready to make him a star."So," I say, pulling out my notepad, "pretty soon it'll be fancy limousines and fast women for you, right, kid?""Huh?" he says.I know what's coming. The Stanley Cup playoffs begin Saturday. The Red Wings are a favored team; Cheveldae is a hot goalie.I know what's coming.
NEW YORK -- Andy Warhol said everyone gets his 15 minutes, and I guess I just had mine. Actually, it was only five minutes. With Arnold Schwarzenegger. And one minute with Dyan Cannon. And seven seconds with Donald Trump, who really needs a new haircut. I mean, his hair just kind of creeps up his forehead, like a raccoon climbing a tree. I wanted to say, "Donald. Here's five bucks. Go down to the barber shop, ask for Al. . ."But I digress.
I see by the melting snow and the euphoric look on John Lowe's face that it is once again spring and therefore time for Opening Day. But before the baseball zombies attack my house like creatures from "Night of the Living Dead," banging on my windows with their fantasy league stat books and chanting, "Come ouuuut. Come ouuuut. Choose a pennant winner . . . or . . . DIE!" let me say this: John. Zombies. The rest of you. I have bad news:Baseball ain't the same.And it is no longer King.
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.
