Detroit Free Press

When John Salley was a kid in Brooklyn, he would go door to door on Saturday mornings with members of his church. "Good morning," he would say, when someone answered the bell. "My name isJohn Salley. I'm with Jehovah's Witness. We're have these two magazines, they're going for a small price of 10 cents apiece, and--""Get lost.""I gave already.""No!"Two hours. Every Saturday. When noon came, he was free. He dashed home to his family's apartment in the projects near Jamaica Bay. Off with the shoes. On with the sneakers.

LAKELAND, Fla. -- This is a story about a baseball player and the best woman golfer in the world, who happens to be his wife. When they were dating, she would be interrupted during dinner for autographs. Embarrassed, she would sign quickly and hope he wouldn't mind. "Then Ray won the MVP of the World Series," says Nancy Lopez, laughing, "and they were asking for his autograph more than mine."

I must be honest. I do not enjoy picking scabs. Usually they bleed, and then you have to get a Band-Aid. So, to avoid what I consider an unpleasant and unfair labor task, I have gone on strike.Yes. On strike. Hey. If the NFL players can do it, so can I. This week's predictions column of these so-called "scab games" is being written instead by my stand-in, a very capable stand- in, I might add. His name is Vince. Say hello, Vince. Vince says hello. Actually he just sort of grunted.Let me tell you about Vince.

FREMANTLE, Australia -- A steady rain was falling by the time the skinny guy came out of the boat shed. He was dressed in a T- shirt and khaki shorts, and he poked his glasses back up his nose. All around him, the burly crew members of Stars & Stripes were shaking each others' hands and picking a restaurant for dinner -- a victory dinner, thank you, for they had just won the first race of the America's Cup final, against Kookaburra III, in the weirdest weather anyone could imagine.Anyone but their weather man."Not bad," someone said to Chris Bedford.

I am very ready. I have my Tigers cap and my Tigers glove and my oversized T-shirt that says YANKEES GO HOME! across the front. I am sitting outside Tiger Stadium, making tiger noises. I am prepared for war. I am very ready. "GOT YOUR TICKETS?" I yell to a passerby."Huh?" he says."You should have planned ahead," I say.I have my tickets. Had them since April. Even back then, everybody knew this Tigers-Yankees series in September would determine the AL East. Didn't we all circle it on the calendar? Didn't we?"GIBSON VS. GUIDRY!" I yell.

The man was hunched over the bar, his back to the crowd. A blond woman kept coming up to him. He would smile, then look down at his glass, until finally she went away."You know who he is," someone said."Who?" "That guy. That's Harold Snepsts."I looked again. It was Harold Snepsts. This was last summer, a week or so after hockey season ended. I walked over.I said, "Hey."He looked up wearily. Then, upon recognizing a familiar face, he smiled."Did you hear the news?" he asked."What news?"

TORONTO -- Well, I'll tell you. I heard a lot before this series started. "It's in Canada, for cripes sake. It'll snow on you. How can you have the national pastime being decided north of the border?"

Zip a dee doo dah, zip a dee ay.My, my, my, what a wonderful day.Burn those gee-tars. Torch those pickup trucks. Melt those Willie Nelson albums into a ball of hot wax, and mold it into a Lion.A roaring Lion.Detroit 26, Dallas 21.Wow.Hot damn.Sounds so good, I'm gonna say it again.Detroit 26, Dallas 21.Like gunning down Billy The Kid. Like knocking out Muhammad Ali. One punch. Like taking on the IRS and finding out they made the mistake.