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He won. That's all that matters. The debate over LeBron James may go on. But sports is a did-or-didn't business, and when Miami captured the NBA title Thursday, LeBron stepped over. This explains why the same fans, critics and sports media who just TWO WEEKS AGO were saying LeBron lacked heart or big shot desire are now bowing to his sunrise.
It's official. I've become a prude. I thought this happened only in adolescence. I thought once you got past those awkward teenage years, everyone grew up about sex. I thought we were supposed to laugh about how red-faced sex made us feel in high school. But high school was easy. I was relatively OK in high school. Now? Now I feel about 50 miles behind.
We meet in a Starbucks near his Northville home. He comes alone, in a T-shirt and jeans, sits for nearly 2 hours, and never looks at his watch. You are tempted to say this is the new, relaxed, retired Nicklas Lidstrom, but he was pretty much always this way. He had as much use for pretense as he did for a second stick.
The flight attendant smiles. "Something to drink?" "Water, please," I say. She asks the next guy over, then turns to me again. "Did you say orange juice?" she asks. The ticket woman smiles.
Rob Rubick used to play pro football. He took a lot of hits. He is 51 now, and says he has a hard time focusing. "If I head to the refrigerator and somebody stops me to talk for 10 seconds," he says, "I end up sitting back on the couch. I forget what I was up for."
Tigers defense. It's not just a job, it's an adventure.
The Heat should just get it over with and rearrange the letters in its name. "The Hate" is more like it.
It sounds relatively harmless. Synthetic marijuana. Like pot for people who don't want to get arrested.
The Ice Man melteth. It took 20 seasons, but those steel blue eyes began to water. The voice quivered. Nicklas Lidstrom was out of his element, wearing a suit, not a sweater, in front of a news conference, not a raucous arena, with notes in his hand, not a stick. And he was saying good-bye.
A hole just formed on the blue line of Detroit sports. Nicklas Lidstrom is retiring. It had to happen, even if we didn't want it to happen. For the last few years, Red Wings fans have been begging the captain for one more season, the way children beg for five more minutes, an extra cookie, one last fairy tale before the lights go out.
I'm not talking. Not to a phone. It may be all the rage for celebrities in iPhone commercials to have pithy exchanges with Siri, the female-sounding voice assistant, but if you ask me, they just sound stupid.
Right now, to fans, Prince Fielder may still be the new guy. But the slugger, who spent part of his childhood in Detroit, doesn't feel that way. He's where he wants to be, doing it the way he wants to do it.
He is a famous gospel singer, a TV star, a pastor who gave the stirring eulogy at Whitney Houston's funeral. That didn't stop several men from attacking him at a Detroit gas station in broad daylight Wednesday, roughing him up and stealing his SUV, his money and his expensive watch, leaving him with an injured hand and torn pants.
When I first saw the new Time magazine cover of a nearly 4-year-old boy nursing on his mother's exposed breast, I must admit it made me nostalgic. For a time when they wrapped magazines in brown paper. I'm no mothering expert, but I do believe, as a general rule, that if you are standing up and wearing long pants, your breast-feeding days are over.
There was a movie not too long ago, based on a book called "I Don't Know How She Does It." It was about a working mother juggling a high-powered job, a demanding family and endless obligations.
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Mike Thompson
