<?xml version="1.0" encoding="ISO-8859-1"?>
<BODY.CONTENT>
<UID>
8602100024
</UID>
<PUBLICATION>
DETROIT FREE PRESS
</PUBLICATION>
<DATE>
860907
</DATE>
<TDATE>
Sunday, September 07, 1986
</TDATE>
<EDITION>
METRO FINAL
</EDITION>
<SECTION>
SPT
</SECTION>
<PAGE>
6D
</PAGE>
<ILLUSTRATION>

</ILLUSTRATION>
<CAPTION>

</CAPTION>
<BYLINE>
MITCH ALBOM
</BYLINE>
<AFFILIATION>

</AFFILIATION>
<MEMO>
the picks
</MEMO>
<COPYRIGHT>
Copyright (c) 1986, Detroit Free Press
</COPYRIGHT>
<HEADLINE>
LIVE, FROM THE BEACH, IT'S ... THE NFL?
</HEADLINE>
<SUBHEAD>

</SUBHEAD>
<CORRECTION>

</CORRECTION>
<BODY>
The suntan lotion cools my skin. The lounge chair is soft and inviting. 

  Ah, summertime.

  My mind drifts to waves. My mind drifts to surfboards. My mind drifts to
ice cream vendors in string  bikinis. . . .
  What's that noise?
  Perhaps I'll go for a pina colada. Or maybe a tequila sunrise. Tonight
we'll have a campfire, and maybe those ice cream vendors will come by and . .
.
  What  is that noise?
  It sounds like a rumbling. It sounds like a pregnant bull. It sounds like .
. . my boss.
  My boss?
  "IT'S FOOTBALL SEASON! WAKE UP!  WHERE THE HELL ARE YOUR PICKS?"
  Ohmigod.  How did he get here? How did he find me? How did he get into that
ridiculous bathing suit?
  Wait a minute. It's football season?
  Really? 
  "GET UP OFF THAT CHAIR AND PICK THOSE GAMES! NOWWWW!"
  Now? . . .
  LIONS 21, VIKINGS 20: Well, let's start with our local heroes. Call me a
dreamer. Call me a homer. Call me a cab for my boss, please. I'm going to
assume the best for the Lions until they prove me wrong. Which could be 4
o'clock this afternoon.
  BEARS 30, BROWNS 10: Yes, the Bears are rich. Yes, the Bears are conceited.
Yes, every Bear now has an autobiography out in paperback.  But lose to
Cleveland? Oooh.
  CHARGERS 41, DOLPHINS 34: Hike, pass, score. Hike, pass, score. Hike, pass,
score. . . .
  SAINTS 24, FALCONS 17: The season hasn't even started and nobody cares
about  either of these teams.
  JETS 30, BILLS 10: The Bills  could have three Jim  Kellys. They still
stink.
  BRONCOS 16 1/2, RAIDERS 16: Close, close, very close . . . 
  PATRIOTS 28, COLTS 13: Half  the New England team is still in New Orleans,
waiting for the Super Bowl to start. Fortunately, even the half that's left is
enough to beat Indianapolis.
  BENGALS 35, CHIEFS 31: Ah, a battle of Midwestern  teams. Ah, a showdown of
Midwestern rivals. Ah, a game the networks wouldn't touch with a 10-foot pole.
  REDSKINS 24, EAGLES 10: I don't care how smart Buddy Ryan is. He still
doesn't wear a helmet.
  CARDINALS 14, RAMS 10: Remember last year, when we were all picking St.
Louis for the Super Bowl? News travels slow in Missouri.
  PACKERS 12, OILERS 10: Quick. Who's the quarterback for Green Bay?  If you
said Lynn Dickey, you're behind the times. If you said Vince Ferragamo,
you're behind the times. If you said Bart Starr, you're legally dead.
  49ERS 33, BUCS 14: The Bucs are  praying for  Bo Jackson to get tired of
baseball. By Thursday, they hope. 
  SEAHAWKS 27, STEELERS 20: Let's see. This game is important because . . .
well, it's important in that . . . well . . . ah, this game  isn't important.
  (MONDAY NIGHT) COWBOYS 23, GIANTS 20: This ball is for Herschel, and this
ball is for Tony. This ball is for Herschel, and this ball is for . . .
  LAST WEEK'S RECORD: What last  week? Last week I was on the beach.
</BODY>
<DISCLAIMER>

</DISCLAIMER>
<KEYWORDS>
FOOTBALL;FORECAST
</KEYWORDS>
</BODY.CONTENT>
