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Kurt Streeter• E-mail
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Recent Columns:
Maaannnyyy, Maaannnyyy," came the chorus, ringing through the left-field bleachers. "Maaannnyyy! Maaannnyyy!"
Danny Harris ran with such power and certainty that it seemed he could sprint past any obstacle, the wind at his back.
The great champion -- young enough to play the grandest stage again, wise enough not to try -- lined up that classic forehand of his, turned his shoulders and let loose.
Did you see it?
I want to believe, I really do.
Jilted fans of runaway sports franchises -- long lost lovers of the Baltimore Colts, the original Cleveland Browns, the Los Angeles Rams and even the L.A. Raiders -- now, more than ever, I know your pain.
Saturday morning, on the pockmarked grass at Wimbledon's center court, two sisters from Compton will trade booming serves and bolo-punch forehands for the All England title.
In the cramped, cobwebbed weight room, filled this early morning with soft-eyed high school football players from this city's hardest parts, Martin Ludlow's past is but a memory.
Oh Great God of Baseball, redeemer of Clemens and Cobb, a heavy burden roils my soul and leads me to this prayer.
Kudos to us (most of us, at least) . . . we've come a long, long way.