There is only one person on the Boston Celtics that worries me and that is Larry Bird. You can throw out as many Dee Browns and Brian Shaws as you want. Tall guys? Bring on the tall guys, Kevin McHale, Joe Kleine, Ed Pinckney. Even the old man, Robert Parish -- who recently celebrated his 92nd birthday -- even him, I can handle. I need an ax. But I can handle him.
BOSTON -- The last time I had breakfast with Bill Laimbeer he stole my grapes. Just reached across the table and grabbed them. Didn't even say thanks -- although he did close his mouth when he chewed. "These are good," he said, swallowing.Then he stuck me for the check.So it's risky business eating with Laimbeer. But I am doing it again, four years later. I am sitting here as he orders eggs Benedict, two bagels, cream cheese, large orange juice, coffee -- and I am doing it because I want to know one thing: I want to know whether he is ready to quit.
BOSTON -- The sneaker sat in the paint, all by itself, as if it had fallen from a shelf. The man who had been wearing it, Isiah Thomas, was on his back now, a few feet away, grabbing the foot with the sock on it, writhing in pain. Even here, 800 miles away, you could hear the groans from Detroit: "Oh, nooo. Now what?"
Like all good heroes, they waited until the final reel of the movie, until you were on the edge of your seat, chewing your fingernails. And suddenly -- ta-da! -- they were Indiana Jones, ducking the spears, dodging the boulders, swinging across the canyon by a single rope. Never a doubt, right? The home team wins? So when it was all over, and the Atlanta Hawks were lying in shreds on the Palace floor -- their hopes of upsetting the champions almost laughable now -- here were the Pistons, blowing on the smoke of their guns and saying "Trust us. We know what we're doing."
There is one less tough guy in the world this morning: We buried Eddie yesterday.Even as I write this, I can still see him, punching me in the arm when I was a kid and saying "Put em up, buddy boy" -- then striking a pose like one of those 1920's boxers. I can still feel his steel-hard muscles when he lifted me in the air, and the sandpaper edge of his whiskers when I kissed his cheek.
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.
