I find my colleague in the basement of the newspaper building. He is hiding in the broom closet. He is trying to burn his typewriter."What are you doing?" I ask."Getting out of the business," he says. "Too dangerous."Dangerous? Sports writing? I have heard it called many things. I have heard it called juvenile, infantile, puerile and silly. I have an uncle who asks, "Do you actually get paid for that, or do they just give you tickets?" But dangerous?"Better get out now," says my colleague. "Before they -- shhh! Did you hear something?"
Last Monday, Cincinnati Bengals coach Sam Wyche decided he didn't want to let a female reporter into his team's locker room. For this, commissioner Paul Tagliabue fined him nearly $30,000 and rejected Sam's plan to chase out the women -- and the men -- after 20 minutes. I have heard a million ideas on this male/female locker room thing. About the only one that made me laugh was the one suggested by Shawn Burr of the Red Wings. Shawn said: "I think the fairest thing is if everyone took their clothes off."Wonder what Sam would think of that one?
New York -- He swung the bat and he heard that smack! and the ball screamed into the dark blue sky, higher, higher, until it threatened to bring a few stars down with it. His teammates knew; they leaped off the bench. The fans knew; they roared like animals. And finally, the man who all year refused to watch his home runs, the man who said this 50 thing was "no big deal" -- finally even he couldn't help himself. He stopped halfway to first base and watched the ball bang into the facing of the upper deck in Yankee Stadium, waking up the ghosts of Maris and Ruth and Gehrig.
NEW YORK -- He swung the bat and he heard that smack! and suddenly the ball was screaming toward the upper deck in left field, and good night, this one was halfway to Jupiter. His teammates leaped off the bench. Even the Yankee fans roared. And finally, the man who all year refused to watch his home runs, the man who said this 50 thing was "no big deal" -- finally, even he couldn't help himself. He stopped about halfway to first base and watched his ball bang down in the deep blue seats of Section 32, waking up the ghosts of Maris and Ruth and Gehrig.
Cecil Fielder, his hair still wet from the shower, was buttoning his shirt with a towel around his waist, as if he couldn't get out of Detroit fast enough. A TV reporter approached for an interview. Fielder waved him off. Sorry. Not talking."See you next spring, Cecil," said a locker room guy."All right," Cecil said, not looking up. He pulled a gray sport coat off the hook and slipped it over his shoulders.
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.
