WIMBLEDON, England -- Ivan Lendl will keep coming back here until they cut his arms and legs off. And he'll never win this tournament. He can practice at his mansion until the servants go home. He can fly to Australia for special training on grass. Heck, he can start sleeping with a Toro lawn mower for all it matters. It won't matter. He is not taking this title.
WIMBLEDON, England -- She took aim at the last tennis ball, she slipped, she whiffed, the crowd groaned, and the freshest story of this Wimbledon tournament was over. Jennifer Capriati was out after four rounds. You think she was angry? You think she was down? She came into the press room wearing an MTV T-shirt and beaming from ear to ear as if she had just won the lead in the school play. Which, come to think of it, she sort of has.
WIMBLEDON, England -- I whiz into customs on my skateboard, the Walkman blaring in my ears. "Your destination, sir?" asks the customs man."Wimbledon," I say.I open my suitcase filled with stuffed giraffes and fuzzy teddy bears. I unzip the bag containing 14 copies of the New Kids on the Block album, and the latest issues of Tiger Beat magazine."Where did you say you were going, sir?" the agent asks again.I repeat, 'Wimbledon."
Nelson Mandela's recent visit may have reminded Americans of the things we take for granted, but it also suggested something we sorely miss: great speakers.Mandela came to Detroit Thursday and, with his thick South African accent, ignited a group of autoworkers by declaring "I am your flesh and blood. I am your comrade." Later, before a packed house at Tiger Stadium, he recited the words to, of all things, a Marvin Gaye song -- and again set the crowd on fire. "Brother . . . brother . . . there's far too many of you dying. . . ."
Riiiiing!"Hello?""Hello, Chuck Daly? Terry O'Neill from NBC.""Hi, Terry.""Just calling to see where we stand. You know we want you as our TV analyst. You and Pat Riley? Together? Awesome, babe. Big money. And we can make sure you guys never wear the same suit, don't worry about that.""Thanks, Terry, I haven't decided yet.""I'll call back. Think peacock, Chuck."Click. Riiiiing!"Hello?""Hello. Chuck? Harold from Philadelphia. Let's get down to brass tacks. We want you. You want us. The GM job is open. What's it gonna take?"
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.
