9002170360
DETROIT FREE PRESS
901217
Monday, December 17, 1990
METRO FINAL
1D
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL CHASER 1D
Copyright (c) 1990, Detroit Free Press
STOP SEASON; LIONS ARE GREAT
Stop the season. Right now. On a high note. Quick, somebody, knock me out
and let me sleep until next September. After all, isn't this what we dream
about? Rodney Peete throwing touchdown bombs? The defense sacking the
quarterback? A near-sellout crowd making airplane noise as the Lions dance on
the Silverdome turf? A happy ending? Isn't that what we dream about? Stop the
season. Quick, somebody get me a hammer.
"But what about the record?" says the voice of reason. "What about the
Lions' losing record? After all, this just makes five wins against nine
losses."
"CAN'T HEAR YOU," I say. "THE WATER'S RUNNING."
Come on. Who wants to hear that stuff? We hear that stuff every week.
Actually, every month. Well, actually, every year. But who's counting?
Not this morning. Please. For once, I want to feel like I live in a town
with a good football team. And that looked like a good football team at the
Silverdome Sunday night. OK. So the Chicago Bears didn't have a whole lot to
lose. So they already had the division clinched. Don't tell me they didn't
want to win. I mean, they were on national television, right? You think they
want to get embarrassed like that? 38-21? Hey. Their mothers might be
watching.
"But what about this Lions' defense, which still has a lot of holes in it?
And the offense, which still rolls the dice with the receiving corps?"
"CAN'T HEAR YOU," I say. "VACUUM CLEANER."
What holes? What dice? Here was that game that had been simmering inside
the Lions for weeks and weeks. It was the game that was never finished against
the Buccaneers, and the Packers, and the Redskins, and the Bears two weeks
ago -- all those games that should have been won, but went bye-bye in the
second half. In those games, the Lions had been like a microwave popcorn bag,
one that starts to expand and then, for some reason, begins smoking and burns
up.
Not this time. It was kernels a-go-go Sunday night. It was Ray Crockett
charging on Jim Harbaugh -- who beat the Lions in overtime two weeks ago --
and crunching him solo and putting him out with a dislocated shoulder. It was
Mike Cofer being no kinder to replacement Mike Tomczak, slamming the ball
away, forcing a fumble, Lions recover. And it was Rodney Peete, going nuts,
bombs away, a 20-yard touchdown to Robert Clark, a 44-yard touchdown to
Richard Johnson, a 68-yard touchdown to Terry Greer. How many all told? Four
touchdowns? Did we say a 68-yarder?
"But what about the interceptions?" says the voice. "What about Rodney's
bobbled fumble that landed in the arms of Richard Dent and he ran back 45
yards for a touchdown?"
"CAN'T HEAR YOU," I say. "I'M ON THE PHONE!"
Now, it's true. This wasn't a perfect game. But were you really expecting
a perfect game? And does perfect really matter for the Lions at this point?
I say no. Far more important than perfection, or precision, is victory.
More importantly -- learning how to win, even when you feel as if you might
lose. And the Lions found themselves in that position Sunday night, in the
third quarter, when Peete's juggle landed in Dent's hands and it was bye-bye.
The score went from 21-7, Lions, to 21-14. And emotionally, you could feel
the shift. Chicago had the edge. The Bears, who are used to winning, were
vibrating with that old feeling. "This game is ours. We can come back."
The Lions, meanwhile, seemed to suddenly sag under their most familiar
emotion. "Uh-oh. We're gonna blow another one."
But then, something happened. Maybe it was aggravation. Maybe it was
impatience. Maybe it was just that the Lions were sick of giving these things
away. But on the Bears' next possession after Dent's touchdown, Crockett
leveled Harbaugh and Chicago was forced to punt and then Peete took a second-
down snap, looked downfield, saw Greer with a step on David Tate and he let
it fly. Beautiful. It fell in like a raindrop. Greer raced untouched across
the stripe and suddenly, a game the Lions were in danger of losing was in
their back pocket. Safe and warm.
"So what?" says the voice of reason. "One lousy game."
"CANT'T HEAR YOU," I say. "BLOW DRYER."
Now, OK. The Lions won a few games at the end of last season as well. In
fact, just about a year ago, they beat these same Bears. And what good did it
do? This season, at the very best, can only equal last year's by record, and
until Detroit starts winning games that matter, when they matter, these
victories will be little more than morsels that fall from the NFL table.
But you gotta start somewhere. And it is the holiday season. So, in the
spirit of Santa Claus, I am shutting my eyes, throwing out my list, and
banging myself on the head. I don't want to know about Green Bay next Saturday
or Seattle the week after. I don't want to know about .500 records, or
sub-.500 records.
I want to meditate on those Peete passes Sunday night, dropping into the
arms of his receivers. And on Cofer and Crockett, doing the "gotcha" fist on
the Chicago quarterbacks. And on Mel Gray fumbling a punt, picking it up, and
still returning it for a nice gain.
"You're crazy," says the voice. "When you wake up, all these same problems
will be here. The quarterback controversy. The weak defense. The losing
tradition."
"WHAT WAS THE SCORE AGAIN?" I say.
"38-21."
"Good night."
Stop the season. Right now. On a high note. Quick, somebody, knock me
out and let me sleep until next September. After all, isn't this what we
dream about? Rodney Peete throwing touchdown bombs? The defense sacking the
quarterback? A near-sellout crowd making airplane noise as the Lions dance on
the Silverdome turf? A happy ending? Isn't that what we dream about? Stop the
season. Quick, somebody get me a hammer.
"But what about the record?" says the voice of reason. "What about the
Lions' losing record? After all, this just makes five wins against nine
losses."
"CAN'T HEAR YOU," I say. "THE WATER'S RUNNING."
Come on. Who wants to hear that stuff? We hear that stuff every week.
Actually, every month. Well, actually, every year. But who's counting?
Not this morning. Please. For once, I want to feel like I live in a town
with a good football team. And that looked like a good football team at the
Silverdome Sunday night. OK. So the Chicago Bears didn't have a whole lot to
lose. So they already had the division clinched. Don't tell me they didn't
want to win. I mean, they were on national television, right? You think they
want to get embarrassed like that? 38-21? Hey. Their mothers might be
watching.
"But what about this Lions' defense, which still has a lot of holes in
it? And the offense, which still rolls the dice with the receiving corps?"
"CAN'T HEAR YOU," I say. "VACUUM CLEANER."
What holes? What dice? Here was that game that had been simmering inside
the Lions for weeks and weeks. It was the game that was never finished against
the Buccaneers, and the Packers, and the Redskins, and the Bears two weeks ago
-- all those games that should have been won, but went bye-bye in the second
half. In those games, the Lions had been like a microwave popcorn bag, one
that starts to expand and then, for some reason, begins smoking and burns up.
Not this time. It was kernels a-go-go Sunday night. It was Ray Crockett
charging on Jim Harbaugh -- who beat the Lions in overtime two weeks ago --
and crunching him solo and putting him out with a dislocated shoulder. It was
Mike Cofer being no kinder to replacement Mike Tomczak, slamming the ball
away, forcing a fumble, Lions recover. And it was Rodney Peete, going nuts,
bombs away, a 20-yard touchdown to Robert Clark, a 44- yard touchdown to
Richard Johnson, a 68-yard touchdown to Terry Greer. How many all told? Four
touchdowns? Did we say a 68-yarder?
"But what about the interceptions?" says the voice. "What about Rodney's
bobbled fumble that landed in the arms of Richard Dent and he ran back 45
yards for a touchdown?"
"CAN'T HEAR YOU," I say. "I'M ON THE PHONE!"
Now, it's true. This wasn't a perfect game. But were you really expecting
a perfect game? And does perfect really matter for the Lions at this point?
I say no. Far more important than perfection, or precision, is victory.
More importantly -- learning how to win, even when you feel as if you might
lose. And the Lions found themselves in that position Sunday night, in the
third quarter, when Peete's juggle landed in Dent's hands and it was bye-bye.
The score went from 21-7, Lions, to 21-14. And emotionally, you could feel
the shift. Chicago had the edge. The Bears, who are used to winning, were
vibrating with that old feeling. "This game is ours. We can come back."
The Lions, meanwhile, seemed to suddenly sag under their most familiar
emotion. "Uh-oh. We're gonna blow another one."
But then, something happened. Maybe it was aggravation. Maybe it was
impatience. Maybe it was just that the Lions were sick of giving these things
away. But on the Bears' next possession after Dent's touchdown, Crockett
leveled Harbaugh and Chicago was forced to punt and then Peete took a second-
down snap, looked downfield, saw Greer with a step on David Tate and he let
it fly. Beautiful. It fell in like a raindrop. Greer raced untouched across
the stripe and suddenly, a game the Lions were in danger of losing was in
their back pocket. Safe and warm.
"So what?" says the voice of reason. "One lousy game."
"CANT'T HEAR YOU," I say. "BLOW DRYER."
Now, OK. The Lions won a few games at the end of last season as well. In
fact, just about a year ago, they beat these same Bears. And what good did it
do? This season, at the very best, can only equal last year's by record, and
until Detroit starts winning games that matter, when they matter, these
victories will be little more than morsels that fall from the NFL table.
But you gotta start somewhere. And it is the holiday season. So, in the
spirit of Santa Claus, I am shutting my eyes, throwing out my list, and
banging myself on the head. I don't want to know about Green Bay next Saturday
or Seattle the week after. I don't want to know about .500 records, or
sub-.500 records.
I want to meditate on those Peete passes Sunday night, dropping into the
arms of his receivers. And on Cofer and Crockett, doing the "gotcha" fist on
the Chicago quarterbacks. And on Mel Gray fumbling a punt, picking it up, and
still returning it for a nice gain.
"You're crazy," says the voice. "When you wake up, all these same problems
will be here. The quarterback controversy. The weak defense. The losing
tradition."
"WHAT WAS THE SCORE AGAIN?" I say.
"38-21."
"Good night."
COLUMN