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.
"You wanna be where everybody knows your name. . . . "-- Theme from "Cheers"ATLANTA -- Over in the corner, Dennis Rodman is racking up amazing points on the basketball machine. In another corner, Gerald Henderson talks quietly with a businessman. At the bar, Mark Hughes and Lance Blanks are chewing on hamburgers. In the back, George Blaha is eating catfish. Meanwhile, a large group of customers sits oblivious to all of them, watching a big-screen TV -- or one of 20 smaller screens -- and cheering a hockey game.
ATLANTA -- It was the best of periods, it was the worst of periods. And it is the reason why you cannot dismiss these Detroit Pistons -- not until the last breath is gone from their lips. You can criticize them, shake your head at them, wonder about them, get sick over them, lose money on them, lose hair on them, but you cannot dismiss them, no way, simply because of nights like Tuesday, when, in two hours of basketball, they played one quarter like "Night of the Living Dead" and another like "The Greatest Story Ever Told."And they won the game.
For a few minutes Sunday night, he was his old self, firing those high-arching jump shots that threaten to bring down rain before they swish through the net. Two points. Another two points. Then he drove deep into the Atlanta defense and did the between-the-legs thing, the trademark left-right-left-right dribble -- sort of like the old Ali shuffle -- followed by a one-handed whip pass across the court. Beautiful. Then he led a fast break. Then he stole the ball. Then he shot again. Two points.
Personally, I don't want to know whether Nancy Reagan slept with Frank Sinatra in the White House. For one thing, I have a lot of good Sinatra records that I would have to throw out. Also, I might have children one day, and maybe I'll want to take them to Washington, D.C., and then what do I say? "Look, kids, there's where Abraham Lincoln sat. And there's where Franklin Roosevelt discussed the war. And there's where Frank and Nancy did it."
OK. You're at a cocktail party. You're standing on the table. You're waving your arms, howling like a moose, you've got the whole room listening to you. . . . And you blank out. You were about to tell them why the Pistons will win their third straight NBA championship, starting with Game 1 of the playoffs tonight at the Palace. You were about to tell them why the other NBA teams are not that good, why the Pistons have nothing to fear, now that Earl Strom has retired.
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.
