Bleacher Report Quotes

Or there, in the clay-baked piedmont of the South, that lean and tan-faced boy who sprawls there in the creaking chair among admiring cronies before the open doorways of the fire department, and tells them how he pitched the team to shut-out victory to-day. What visions burn, what dreams possess him, seeker of the night? The packed stands of the stadium, the bleachers sweltering with their unshaded hordes, the faultless velvet of the diamond, unlike the clay-balked outfields down in Georgia. The mounting roar of eighty thousand voices and Gehrig coming up to bat, the boy himself upon the pitching mound, the lean face steady as a hound’s; then the nod, the signal, and the wind-up, the rawhide arm that snaps and crackles like a whip, the small white bullet of the blazing ball, its loud report in the oiled pocket of the catcher’s mitt, the umpire’s thumb jerked upwards, the clean strike.

Since Donald Trump's rise, the national media have devoted tremendous attention to the political grievances of rural White voters. Reporters and pundits routinely descend upon rural communities, sit down with locals at diners and sports bleachers, and listen earnestly to what downscale rural White voters have to say, but the same national media hardly notice that rural minorities exist or are aware that they have legitimate complaints of their own.

By coincidence the near-breakdown of the talks occurred on the same day that the news media was allowed its only visit. Reporters had been kept several miles away from Camp David and fed largely useless scraps of information by spokesmen. Now they bussed in for a mere forty-five minutes and seated in bleachers to witness an evening ceremony featuring the US Marine band. Even from a distance, the press corps could tell that all three leaders looked glum, and the talks were not going well. Beyond that, reporters got nothing. After the press buses were loaded to leave, Jerry Rafshoon noticed that Barbara Walters was not aboard. He found her hiding in a stall in the ladies room. She'd hoped in vain to stay behind and find out what was happening.

Trust me. Nothing in this stadium stays a secret. These boys gossip harder than a group of southern housewives whispering at a Sunday church luncheon.

Abby scoffs. “Your king-sized fake boyfriend bought you a plow platform?” I blink. “A what?” “You know...a sheet shaker