First of all, Barry Sanders doesn't mind dancing. As long as someone else is doing it. Sure, when he scores a touchdown, he hands the ball to the referee like a mailman delivering a phone bill. But he isn't bothered by those who prefer a wiggle or a shake. "Hey, I used to love Billy (White Shoes) Johnson, and the Washington Smurfs and all," he says, looking down at his hands. "It's just . . . not me."
FLUSHING MEADOW, N.Y. -- They are stripped naked for 10 minutes a day. All of them. Martina and Chris, McEnroe and Lendl and Connors, even golden boy Boris Becker, exposed for all to see every time they make the walk from the locker room to the stadium.Yes, the big shots must wade through the crowd here -- past the hamburger stands and bathroom lines -- just like the regular folk, without priority, without special privilege. Sure, they walk a little faster and try to look disinterested.
WIMBLEDON, England -- He is like some tragic hero from Greek mythology; when he catches the man it turns to a horse, when he catches the horse, it flies away as a bird. What more can Ivan Lendl try at Wimbledon? He has elevated his game, learned to move on grass, learned to come to the net, learned to handle the thunderous serves of the Beckers and Edbergs. He is masterfully prepared, kneaded by chiropractors, oiled by psychologists, his rackets and shoes perfectly engineered for his lean, strong body. Effort? Did you say effort?
LEXINGTON, Ky. -- They cut down the net, one player at a time, each taking a souvenir piece for himself. Finally, it hung by a single strand, until the Wolverines found their coach, gave him the scissors, and marched him up the ladder to the rim. "FISH! FISH! FISH!" they screamed.Snip.Finally, Four.
FREMANTLE, Australia -- Now the waves can come and swallow this town again. For a few glorious days it was hanging ten on the world, the yachts were racing, the cameras whirring, but now that's over and the crowds are thin and you can get a table easily in the good steak houses, even the ones near the water.
This is a day in the life of Lomas Brown, a day he woke up in Florida, went to bed in Detroit, and hit the mother lode somewhere in between.I am now a pro. I am now a . . . millionaire.It began with a telephone call Friday morning. "Looks good," said his agent, who had been trying to negotiate a deal for weeks. "Be prepared to go."
I get around. I hear stories. I have heard of a one-legged skier and a midget baseball player. I have heard of a boxing promoter with electric hair. I have heard of The Chicken. I have never heard of a hockey player whose career almost ended because his agent died.His agent died?"What happened?" I ask."Normie was pretty old," the player says."Normie," I repeat.I am hearing some strange things. I am hearing stories too weird to be lies. I am sitting with Jim Leavins, age 25, and he is telling me how he came to be a Detroit Red Wings defenseman.
This is a day in the life of Lomas Brown, a day he woke up in Florida, went to bed in Detroit, and hit the mother lode somewhere in between.I am now a pro. I am now a . . . millionaire.It began with a telephone call Friday morning. "Looks good," said his agent, who had been trying to negotiate a deal for weeks. "Be prepared to go."
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.
