MINNEAPOLIS -- The Japanese, we are told, don't want our cars. They don't want our electronics. They don't want our work habits. But they do want our Super Bowl.That was pretty clear this week, when I spotted no less than 30 Japanese workers from a single Japanese TV station, all here for the big game. I noticed them racing around the Metrodome, seeking interviews with players. I noticed them lugging video equipment, often running from one location to the next, the heavy steel units slamming on their shoulders.
Listen, Curt, I've got that rubbing ointment you asked for. I guess your butt must really hurt, considering how hard you jumped on that bandwagon. Washington to win the Super Bowl? Stop the presses! The man goes out on a limb! Of course, I understand why you want to play the favorites this year. Should we remind everyone? Curt? Are you turning red? . . . Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the man who selected New England to beat Chicago in Super Bowl XX and Denver to beat San Francisco in Super Bowl XXIV and was off only by a mere 81 points.
MINNEAPOLIS -- Drop dead. I hope you die. You are trash. You are scum. I get letters like this all the time. So do most journalists I know. And most politicians, civil rights leaders, talk-show hosts, and movie stars. Just about anyone in the public eye can scoop through the mailbag and come up with a few juicy gems about how "your type of people" should take the next boat to Russia, Africa or hell -- depending on who was offended.
MINNEAPOLIS -- I am greeted at the airport by yellow balloons and a woman with a name tag, who smiles and says "You here for the game?" I say yes and she points to the coordinator. He smiles and says "You here for the game?" I say yes and he points to a the bus driver. "You here for the game?" the bus driver says.I say yes. He waves me on.I am a sports writer.This is the Super Bowl.
WASHINGTON -- The day began to die on the second play from scrimmage, when Erik Kramer was smothered and the ball squirted loose and the Redskins picked it up as if lifting a penny off the sidewalk. You knew then, somewhere in your stomach, that the theme of this chilly championship game would be simple and sad: The dream ends here.
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.
