I never got much out of reading Thoreau. Maybe because I read him in high school. An urban teenager doesn't exactly fall for a guy who moves to the woods and talks to squirrels. I do, however, remember one line he wrote. It struck me when I read it and it has stayed with me all these years: "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."What did he mean by that, I wondered? Did grown-ups really have it so tough? Quiet desperation? Such contrasting words. Like "dying hope." Or "deafening silence."Or "I didn't mean to hurt my babies."
He came back to the bench during every time-out, sweating like a coal miner. He did not look up, not at the screaming crowd, not at his teammates, not at his coaches. He had a semi- dazed expression that seemed to say, "Don't bother me, now. I'm working."
The conventional wisdom in basketball says no game in January can be that important. The Chicago Bulls would like to believe that.Forget the fact that the Bulls were tied for first place coming into the Palace Tuesday night. They were little better than an also-ran to the suddenly streaking Pistons, who have won six straight and sent fans home early with a 100-90 embarrassment of Michael Jordan and company."It was a strange game," said Pistons coach Chuck Daly on a night when his team so dominated that it led the Bulls by as many as 21 points. "They looked a little flat."
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. -- The car rolled toward the hotel exit. Bo Schembechler, squinting in the morning sun, pointed a finger at it, like a traffic cop, and it quickly came to a halt."What?" asked senior lineman Mike Teeter, the driver, rolling down his window. "Am I doing something wrong, Coach?"Bo grinned. "Hey," he said, "I'm not your coach anymore, Mike. I'm just your friend."Teeter smiled and slowly drove away.
PASADENA, Calif. -- In the end there was no Santa Claus. There was no Happy New Year. Bo Schembechler could only stand there, the headphones dangling, as the final seconds of his career ticked away. The wrong way. Michael Taylor, his quarterback, threw wide, the ball hit the ground. He threw deep. The ball sailed past the intended receiver. He took the final snap -- fourth down and miracle to go -- and he was stuffed in an army of Southern Cal defenders.
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.
