Detroit Free Press

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?"

The doctor said she had two choices: radiate the foot, hope the cancer would die, or cut the foot off and keep the disease from spreading. Beth Hardman looked at her parents. She was 16 years old, a high school student with the smile of an angel, the kind of smile that gets you elected, as she soon would be, Homecoming Princess. And now she had to decide whether to keep a foot. Her Left Foot. They don't make movies about kids like this. Maybe they should."I think we ought to take it off," Beth told the doctor. "Let's set up the appointment."

ATLANTIC CITY, N.J. -- He would not go down. He would not go down. No matter how many times Evander Holyfield hit him square on the mouth, flush in the stomach, smack on the head, George Foreman would not budge, would not slip, would not buckle. He would not go down. Somewhere in the middle of this heavyweight championship fight, it ceased to become about winning and became all about survival. The crowd was roaring, "George! George! George!" They screamed as he refused to even sit on a stool between rounds.

* Green Bay 20, Lions 13: The Lions are playing for league-wide respect. The Packers are playing to make the playoffs. The second is more desperate. Always go with desperation.* Miami 17, New England 6: Don Strock starts the game at quarterback, gets hurt, Shula calls on Bob Griese, who gets hurt, Shula calls on Earl Morrall, who gets hurt . . .

LOS ANGELES -- The hair! The hair! They are buzzing about his hair, his follicles, his "do", his mop, big brown crown. Does it move? Does it muss in a hurricane? Could he use it as a helmet? Could he melt it with anti-freeze? Does he comb it, or slide underneath it? Can he run his fingers through it, or does he need power tools? The hair! The hair! Jimmy Johnson hears all this talk about his hair, why he wears it in that Glen Campbell, early-1970's, part and dip and swirl back, half-country, half-lounge lizard, spray-until it turns-to- cement style. Such hair!

The van stops and the back door opens. Inside is a feast of garbage. Perfectly good food: coffee, bananas, crackers, frozen pizza, sugar, bread -- food someone was about to throw away."Lemme help you," says a homeless man in a ski cap and tattered shoes. He peers inside the van, like a child sneaking a peek at Christmas presents."Me, too," says an older fellow, unshaven, in a cheap grey sweater. "Right here for ya," says another."Go ahead, we're ready."

There are days when the blood runs down their noses and the mud gets in their helmets and their arms and legs scream: "Rest! We need rest!" -- just as another 300-pounder comes charging in.On days such as this, there can't be anything worse than being an offensive lineman. Unless, maybe, you are Shawn Bouwens.