For all the mothers whose sons did not kill.For all the mothers whose sons did not steal.For all the mothers whose sons did not plant pipe bombs.For all the mothers whose sons did not rape.For all the mothers whose sons did not poison.For all the mothers whose sons did not abuse.For all the mothers whose sons did not create Internet viruses.For all the mothers whose sons did not need guns.
"Check it out, check it out," I say, standing on the street corner, slapping my palm. I catch your eye. You stop.I wave two pairs of tickets."Pistons or Wings? Hockey or basketball? Game 5 or Round 2? What's it gonna be, my man?""Are you talking to me?" you say.Of course, we're talking to you. You and the rest of the fever-pitched, dry-throated, double-fisted Detroit sports fans, who face the enviable problem of two big playoff games in one city in one night. Pistons or Red Wings? Downtown or suburbs?What's it gonna be?
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.
