Detroit Free Press

James Voskuil pulled a crewneck sweater over his head and ran a fist through his wet hair. He had thought about a quick exit after that last shot, while the fans and reporters were still inside and stunned. He had thought about "just running up the tunnel and going straight out the door, into the 20- degree weather, going home." He laughed now at the thought. He didn't run out the door, because kids do that, and he is no longer a kid.

INGLEWOOD, Calif. -- Bulls win. I think. At least I'm pretty sure that was Michael Jordan dancing off the court with his first NBA title, and Scottie Pippen and Horace Grant and John Paxson hugging in a tight circle on the Forum floor. It sure looked like them, anyhow. As for the final game of this championship series, I would like to tell you what happened, but I must confess an embarrassing mistake: I obviously drove to the wrong arena. That couldn't have been Bulls-Lakers. It looked more like Kings-Clippers.

A strange thing happened to me this week. I was nearly mowed down by a car racing toward a bookstore.Normally, I wouldn't mind this, since at least the person was in a hurry to read, instead of getting home in time to watch "The Simpsons." Then I noticed other cars also speeding toward the parking lot, and people -- mostly women -- slamming their doors and racing into the store."What's going on?" I asked."Gone With The Wind," I was told.

I've seen heavyweight fights that go like this: One guy comes out on fire, he slugs and pounds and gets the crowd all worked up. Pow! Pow! His fists are flying, and his opponent takes every shot, the blood spitting from his face, until he looks like he'll go down any moment -- which only excites the aggressor more. Only the opponent doesn't go down. He stays standing. Blow after blow. And finally, the first guy, exhausted from all this punching with no reward, takes a breath, says, "Hey, what's with this lug?"And pow! The other guy knocks him out.

Once upon a time, when you asked someone for an interview, you didn't plan on calling him names.Then again, once upon a time, we used leeches to cure the common cold.Times have changed. So it didn't surprise me when an NFL quarterback named Jim Everett went on a cable talk show last week, and the host insultingly called him "Chris" -- as in Chris Evert, the female tennis player -- not once, not twice, but three times."I'll bet you don't call me that again," the quarterback warned."I'll bet I do," the host said.He smirked."Chris," he said.

Usually, the stupidity of the masses is fought by the integrity of the few.Now and then, it's the other way around.Take the case of Jill Burstein. She is a security guard at Detroit's Renaissance Center. She sits behind a desk in one of the building's many hallways.The RenCen can be a cold, sterile place. So Jill decided to warm it up a little. At Halloween, she put a pumpkin on her desk. People smiled when they walked past.At Thanksgiving, she put up two paper turkeys and a balloon. People smiled again.