We interrupt you, America, to bring this rumbling from the Midwest:Pistons. Wings. Pistons. Wings.Ba-boom.The words create a growing frenzy, like a sparrow's heartbeat, like a Baptistchurch service, like the music from "Jaws." They are on the lips of every auto worker in Dearborn, every lawyer in Birmingham, every elevator-rider in every office building in downtown Detroit.Pistons. Wings. Pistons. Wings.Ba-boom.
They come clanking into the playoffs like some science fiction monster, unbeatable, unstoppable, unkillable. Buh-dump. Buh-dump."Hello," they say, "we are Detroit.""AHHHHHHHHHH!"People scatter. Sirens roar. The police turn on the spotlights to try to blind them into submission. Suddenly they are Godzilla in basketball shorts, the favorites, the invincible army."Excuse us," they say to the people of Boston, "we don't mean to make a fuss. Is this the way to the Garden?""AHHHHHHHHHH!"
EDMONTON -- Melt the ice. This remarkable season is finally over. The Red Wings went down the way they had come up, fighting, scratching, clawing, overachieving, playing better than anyone had dreamed, playing within inches of greatness, within a breath of a miracle. But still a breath away.Over? Over.
BOSTON -- One game for the pennant now. One game left. One more chance for the Boston Red Sox, who, when they needed their steadiest pitching performance of the year, went to their unsteadiest pitcher. Naturally. And true to form in this wacko American League Championship Series, he delivered. Naturally."Did you hear them yelling OIL CAN! OIL CAN!" someone asked Dennis (Oil Can) Boyd, after his team stuffed California, 10-4, behind seven strong innings of his pitching, to force Game 7 of this American League Championship Series.
NEW YORK -- You say: "What a nice day."I say: "Drop dead."You say: "Can I help with your luggage?"I say: "Drop dead."You say tomato. I say stuff the tomato. I am rehearsing my lines. It is part of my plan. I am following the strategy of every general from Napoleon to MacArthur. Know your enemy. Think like your enemy. My enemy is the New Yorker. From now until a week from Sunday. Ten days. Seven baseball games. Tigers versus Yankees. I seek a New York state of mind."What a nice suit," you say."Drop dead," I say.
Go ahead. Make us sick, why don't you? It's bad enough to sit in a canvas bubble watching your team go plop. But here was Anthony Carter, back for his annual visit, streaking across the middle of the Silverdome as if everyone else were moving in slow motion, and here comes the ball, right on target, and, bingo, it's in his hands and he's off.Who needs it? It's hard enough to see the Lions week after week without getting chewed on by the rats of what might have been. But they were there Sunday, every time Carter caught the ball. And wouldn't you know it? He caught it a lot.
NEW YORK -- Live from New York, it's . . . The Mets? Live? What are they doing still alive? Didn't you go to sleep last night figuring this thing was over? Didn't you flick off the TV set around 10 o'clock, figuring "That's it. This is history. Red Sox win." Didn't you?Ho, ho, sleepy breath.Never trust New York on Saturday night. It is rich with surprise, with turnarounds, twists, muggings and this night, ironies. Oh, what ironies! Oh what a game!
BOSTON -- Don't high school coaches all preach the same things? Fundamentals. Teamwork. Defense first, offense second. And most kids, in keeping with tradition, pay no attention.Michael Cooper was one of the weird ones. Michael Cooper listened. When they told him "defense not offense" at Pasadena High School, he said "OK. Gotcha." He worked on steals, blocks. Scoring was beside the point.
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.
