Stories Nobody Else Has Written
To work on the teeth of an NHL player is so unlike regular dentistry that it needs a word of its own. Teeth knocked out, gums ripped apart, cheeks sliced open, jaws broken into pieces—whatever dental injury a person can have, an NHL dentist has probably seen it, and more than once. Read more >
Blair Holliday looked dead. He was face down in Lake Tillery, only his life jacket preventing him from sinking. A jet ski accident had launched him into the water. Holliday was unconscious.
A dazed Jamison Crowder—a Duke teammate and fellow receiver who drove the jet ski that collided with Holliday—saw his friend’s limp body and swam to him. The 5-9 Crowder lifted the 6-4 Holliday onto the back of a jet ski. Someone else drove while Jamison, facing backward, held onto Holliday, his feet and legs trailing in the water.
Just past midnight, in the wee hours of Friday morning, I started to doubt the wisdom of basing my entire existence on using nothing but NASCAR products. Bristol Motor Speedway is a long way from my house in St. Louis, and I was sick of driving, even though I was riding in style in a tricked-out 2005 Ford F-150 (official pickup truck). Making matters worse:
I was 530 miles into a 500-mile trip.
I was lost.
I didn't have a map.
And my cell phone was dying.
As I white-knuckled the mammoth truck through a switchback, I remained intent on proving my hypothesis: Over a race weekend, I could eat, wear, consume and buy nothing but NASCAR products.
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The glove is a black Rawlings. It says “Gardy” on it because it belongs to Minnesota Twins manager Ron Gardenhire. But Gardenhire hasn’t seen it in almost two years. When he gets it back at the Twins home opener Monday, he might not recognize it.
“It’s the dirtiest glove in the world. I left all the dust on it,” says Logan Hastings. The dust is from Afghanistan. Hastings, a 26-year-old specialist in the U.S. Army, took the glove to war after Gardenhire gave it to him. “Oh my goodness, it’s disgusting,” Hastings says.
It is the walkoff home run of live action sports shots. Carlton Fisk is waving the ball fair. He’s perfectly in focus, perfectly framed slightly to the right as he drifts left toward first base. As the ball hits the fair pole, he jumps, Fred Lynn in the on-deck circle behind him jumps, and the dozens of fans in the shot behind him jump.
It is one of the most famous and enduring images in American sports history. More important than that, it forever changed the way television covers baseball.
JOHNSTON, S.C. — Jeff Calabrese strolled along the sideline. It was way too cold for shorts, but that’s what he wore, because that’s what he always wears, along with a black hoodie, black baseball hat and black sneakers.
He watched the game at the 35-yard line for a while, meandered to the 50, back to the 35. He talked with his offensive players between possessions, and he did all of this with the urgency of a man taking a walk in the park. Intense? No. Screaming? Never. Yelling? Not once. The head coach of the Hartsville (S.C.) Red Foxes gave no indication that his team was in the state high school semifinals.
KINGSPORT, Tenn. — A watched phone never rings. Coty Sensabaugh's iPhone is sitting in his lap late Saturday morning as he settles in for what he expects to be a long day. He's confident he'll get taken in the NFL Draft but admits he has prepared himself for the worst, in case his phone stays silent all day.
The first day of the draft provides faux drama, as the world's most extravagant job fair goes live on TV. Young men are crushed when they fall from high first round to middle first round to low first round, even—gasp—into the second round. But let's be honest: Nobody feels sorry for a 22-year-old man who is less of a millionaire than he thought he would be.
Bobby Allison climbs down the stairs to The Sporting News Studio to watch one of the greatest races in NASCAR history.
Twenty-five years ago, he won the Daytona 500, and his son, Davey, finished second.
Because of head injuries he suffered in a crash at Pocono Raceway four months later, Bobby Allison can’t remember the race. He can’t remember his son inching alongside him coming out of Turn Four on the last lap. He can’t remember beating his son off that final corner and then taking the checkered flag. He can’t remember his son pouring beer — Miller was Bobby’s sponsor — on him in victory lane.