by | Nov 21, 2008 | Detroit Free Press | 0 comments


Feels good.

Toss me some suds, will ya?

Yep. Here we are, neck-high in this tub full of champagne, me and my Southern literary agent, Mr. Bobby Will Getcha. Been here since Sunday. Just jumped in with all our clothes on.

You do that kind of stuff when your team is undefeated. Like ours is.

The Detroit Lions, I’m talking about.

Un-deeee-feated. A perfect season.


Hear that Miami? San Fran? Washington? A big fat zero in the loss column.

Bet you guys wish you were us, huh?


Not everyone can win every game they play.

Like we did. We cooked like a big steak. We spun like a big record. We dug like a big shovel.

Just annihilated those Atlanta Falcons, is all. Bing, bang, bong. Let ’em see the bottom of our shoes. Then squashed ’em dead.

OK. So the score was 28-27. A win’s a win.

And a perfect season is a perfect season.

Which is what we have, you know.

And which is why I’m in this tub with my literary agent, Bobby Will Getcha — who just might be the best old literary agent ever to come out of Sakatoochie County — taking laps in what you call your basic Dom Perignon, vintage 1985.

Ready for a little backstroke there, Bobby? Will they be eating gumbo?

Here. Help yourself to one of these dandy little tropical drinks. I’ll just be a sec . . .

OK. I’m back. Had to call the hotel. New Orleans gets crowded in January, you know.

That’s New Orleans, Louisiana.

As in Super Bowl, 1986.

Can’t you taste that gumbo now, Bobby Will? And some of that, whatcha call

it, jambalaya?

Mmm. Sure is sweet being undefeated.


How ’bout that Darryl Rogers? Had us fooled, didn’t he, with all those warnings about not expecting too much?

And Eric Hipple? Oh, the early part of his season was rough — those first 10 minutes — but then he came around and put some sixes on the board and, bingo, here we are.

Perfect season. Bayou, here we come.

Now, sure, Bobby and I have heard all that talk. How the Lions have only played one game, and how we shouldn’t celebrate so fast.

Fact is, I myself believed that godless chatter, until old Bobby here set me straight.

He reminded me that most everyone in the world picked the Lions to lose last Sunday. Except yours truly, who would rather swallow a rattlesnake than wish the Lions poorly on Opening Day.

I said the Motor City studs would show ’em. Printed it in the paper, too.

And sure enough, they did it.

They bit like a big shark. Rolled like a big wheel. They scored touchdowns

and everything.

Which was when old Bobby got out the tub and started pouring. He said,
“Hoss, why wait? We’re undefeated, is all we are. You called it. As your agent, I recommend you take some credit, son.”

And so I figured, he’s right.

Pass me some of that credit there, Bobby. The kind with the little umbrella in it. No room in tub for Montana

Of course, the tub is a bit more crowded now than on Sunday.

That’s because all these nice folks came by from Tiger Stadium, after watching our baseball boys fall to Seattle like tracks to a train.

They took off their caps. And they jumped in.

Say howdy, folks.

They say howdy.

See, the way we all figure it, last September was real nice. The Tigers were in first place. Everybody got to go as wild as baby chickens. And if that wasn’t fun, you can bust me.

This year, though, the Tigers hit some hard luck. It happens. Luckily, the Lions were there.

Read me that newspaper again, Bobby. Who’s in first place, NFC Central Division?

Oh, yeah. That’s right. Almost forgot. Detroit.

Take that to the dance, Joe Montana.

Yankees who? Toronto what? Sorry. No comprendo. All we know is Detroit Lions.

The undefeated Detroit Lions.

Which is why we’ll stay here, me and my Southern literary agent, and all these nice folks, neck-high in what you call your basic celebration.

Forever. Or at least for the next 72 hours.

That’s when the Cowboys come in.


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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.

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