You find me in the newspaper composing room, late at night, near a vat of ink. I use bold face. I use big type. I am laying out the headlines. Tomorrow's headlines. Today.IRISH DO IT AGAIN, BEAT U-M, 10-9!FREAK PLAY WINS IT! IRISH 10, U-M 9!"What are you doing?" you ask."Preparing," I answer.I know what is coming. It is that time of year. The cool winds are blowing, the tan lines are gone. Michigan plays Notre Dame. That time of year.
Nobody listens to pop music anymore; they watch it. They flick on MTV, plop in a couch, and let the images take over. What was once a drumbeat is now a cue for the video editor, jump cut, jump cut, dancing bodies, lips, hair, ocean waves, naked girls, gangs waving their fists, guitar players sticking their tongues out.
* LIONS 21, GREEN BAY 20: I took a lot of heat for saying the Lions would at least cover the spread last week. As it turned out, all they covered was their eyes. Wouldn't you, if you lost by 45 points? So I write that off to Washington, to Opening Day jitters, to bad sushi the night before, whatever. I pick them to win this week, and if they lose, at home, against the Green Bay Packers, I promise, right here, I am not picking them again this year.
NEW YORK -- That does it. I am drafting a petition to the Womens Tennis Association: No more press conferences for girls under 18. Let them play. Let them shower. Let them go home to their Sting records.But keep them away from the microphone. Really. It's for the best. And I have been thinking about this for a while, ever since Steffi Graf mumbled through her first few years, and then Gabriela Sabatini mumbled through her first few years, and then Jennifer Capriati laid about 400,000 "you knows" in a single sentence.
NEW YORK -- Near the back of the men's locker room, on a single wooden bench, Aaron Krickstein sat by himself, watching a silent TV screen and counting down the minutes. Soon he would become the loneliest man in New York City, the man who would try to beat the legendary Jimmy Connors, a one-time tennis villain who has finally reached his 39th birthday and who suddenly everyone wants to take home and cuddle."When was the last time you played a 39-year-old?" someone asked. "My coach," said Krickstein, smiling.
NEW YORK -- Near the back of the men's locker room, on a wooden bench, Aaron Krickstein sat by himself, counting down the minutes. Soon he would become the loneliest man in New York City, the man who would try to beat Jimmy Connors, a former tennis bad boy who just turned 39, and suddenly everyone wants to take him home and hug him."When was the last time you played a 39-year-old?" someone asked Krickstein. "My coach," he said, smiling.
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.
