Long before the empty-net goal by Henrik Zetterberg, long before Darren Helm saw his espresso energy pay off with a red light, long before Pavel Datsyuk amazed everyone with a puck flip over the net as if he were tossing a pizza, long before Jiri Hudler bunted the puck over the goalie's shoulder into the net - yes, bunted, in mid-air, I'm not getting my sports mixed up - long before all that drama and exhaustion and waiting and nail-biting and cheering and music and fireball explosions, long before all that   there was Johan Franzen.
Since today is Mother's Day, it seems a good time to take stock of the first thing a mom gives you when you come into the world, and sometimes even before you do. Your name. Oh, I know Dad may be involved in this. Sometimes. But based on an unscientific poll of specific individuals - in this case, me - one concludes that more often than not, Mom has the final vote on what to call the little angel. And today it's Emma.
And his hair was perfect. Every time I think about Chuck Daly, I think about that old song lyric. Chuck coming down the tunnel, nodding just before going out, and his hair was perfect. Chuck charging down the sidelines, screaming "GIMME A BREAK!" and his hair was perfect. Chuck speeding through a shopping mall, fingering the suits, Chuck grinning through a TV interview, Chuck wearing Armani or Hugo Boss, and his hair - wavy, thick, blown back like a Roman statesman's - was perfect. It gave him the image of a man in control, always coiffed, always ready.
In the sixth period of a three-period sport, anything can happen. Players are dog tired. Eyes are blurring. Legs are as heavy as soaked trees. The body doesn't want to bend. Going over the boards feels like someone raised the wall a few feet.
I went to a funeral this past week. My friend's mom. She was a sweet woman who never came to your house empty-handed, who always had a smile and who couldn't help but ask me, in private, if her son, my friend, was ever going to get married.At the funeral service, and later, at the home, I saw photo albums of her when she was younger and her son was a boy, which meant I was a boy, too. And I got a little misty. I realized there are all these categories of people in our lives: parents and grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins, friends, colleagues.
"Is it the nose?" "No comment," Kris Draper says. "The neck?" "No comment." "It's above the waist, right?" "Yeah." "The elbow? The lower lip? The upper lip?" "No comment," he says, laughing. It's nice to hear him laugh. He hasn't laughed much lately. About three weeks ago, Draper suffered some freak injury that the Wings will only identify as "upper body." He hasn't played since.
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.
