Clubhouse Quotes

Freaky monsters were trying to kill us," Sabrina said. "Should I have just died out there so you could keep your clubhouse secret?" "Absolutely!" the prince said.

First you buy me a mocha. Then you let me help you hide a body. Now you take me to a biker clubhouse. Best. Day. Ever.

It's funny that we think of libraries as quiet demure places where we are shushed by dusty, bun-balancing, bespectacled women. The truth is libraries are raucous clubhouses for free speech, controversy and community. Librarians have stood up to the Patriot Act, sat down with noisy toddlers and reached out to illiterate adults. Libraries can never be shushed.

The Ache is not a flaw. The Ache is our meeting place. It's the clubhouse of the brave. All the lovers are there. It is where you go alone to meet the world. The Ache is love.

Pigpen's been tearing through the cabin, the yard, the clubhouse like a toddler on the warpath.

Actually, there are,” she’d said. “Want to see who can make the most inappropriate picture out of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?” So they’d done that. She hadn’t realized how . . . creative a bunch of teen boys could get. But at least it had cut through some of their tension.

Devoted to principles of liberty, equality, and religious tolerance -- which, dear internet, is not necessarily the same thing as satanism -- Masonic lodge became the de facto clubhouses of the Age of Reason.

The record store was a place of escape. It was a library and a clubhouse” - Cameron Crowe quoted

But in Old Rimrock, NJ, in 1995, when the Ivan Ilyches come trooping back to lunch at the clubhouse after their morning round of golf and started to crow, "It doesn't get any better than this," they may be a lot closer to the truth than Leo Tolstoy ever was.

I didn’t mind that she wanted to make the place ours, but swear to Christ, the FedEx delivery guy was stopping at the gates to the clubhouse so often, I think he was considering becoming a prospect.

I [Pigpen] grew up in their clubhouse. I understand you because I am you. I also learned to crawl on the sticky floors of where guys made their oaths. But here’s the difference, I grew up watching people make stupid mistakes in the name of revenge.

On Freud’s understanding, there is a fundamental conflict between the self and the world; that is essentially what the experience of guilt tells us. Such conflict is a source of anxiety, but it also serves to structure the individual. The project of becoming a grown-up demands that one bring one’s conflicts to awareness; to intellectualize them and become articulate about them, rather than let them drive one’s behavior stupidly. Being an adult involves learning to accept limits imposed by a world that doesn’t fully answer to our needs; to fail at this is to remain infantile, growing old in the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

I stepped through the open door. Inside the clubhouse was pitch-black. I couldn’t see a thing, including my own nose. It took me a second to figure out that was because of my sunglasses. Once I took them off, I could see better. Funny how that works.

Did you know that all the best people belong to country clubs? If you can afford the $75,000 fee to get in and if you don’t mind people coming to check out your house and if you think it’s OK to post your name in the clubhouse for approval from all the other members and you feel it is obscene to show your shoulders, you will definitely get in and be surrounded by the best people in town

At the Sugar Oaks Plantation, there are lawn jockeys at attention on the clipped lawn in front of the clubhouse. They are not black so much as they are tan—not exactly white, but rather some reassuring shade of brown, the universal color of good service. They are meant as a reminder that somebody, somewhere, is working harder than you.

Lily looked around curiously. When she had started work at the factory, Beth had told her there was only one rule: she wasn’t allowed in the clubhouse. Lily had been hurt, but she had agreed, hiding the hurt she had felt. Beth had gone on to explain that the men liked to drink sometimes during the day and they didn’t want her upset if she inadvertently came in while they were drinking. Lily had agreed, not wanting her sister to feel bad since she had used her connection to Razer to get her the job in the first place.

I have entered the place I thought was death and it has turned out to be life itself. I entered this Ache alone, but inside it I have found everyone. In surrendering to the Ache of loneliness I have discovered un-loneliness. Right here, inside the Ache, with everyone who has welcomed a child or held the hand of a dying grandmother or said goodbye to a great love. I am here, with all of them. ... Inside the ache is “We.” We can do hard things like be alive and love deep and lose it all, because we do these hard things alongside everyone who has ever walked the Earth with her arms, eyes, and heart wide open. The Ache is not a flaw. It’s our meeting place. It’s the clubhouse of the brave. All the lovers are there. It is where you go alone to meet the world. The ache is love. The ache was never warning me “this ends, so leave.” She was saying “this ends, so stay.

in the morning, as he was sure that the clubhouse would be locked and deserted by now, but when he turned round to check, he saw a single light coming from the ground floor.

Put a tray of cookies out and the Ravens were like a bunch of eight-year-olds, not a clubhouse full of hard-ass bikers.

Irv had rediscovered, as surprisingly few men do, that the secret to perfect male happiness is a well-equipped clubhouse.

Locker rooms are not, in actual fact, the secret clubhouses of the Effortlessly Thin Women’s Fat-Lady Harassment Society.

Patches don’t look it, but when attached to your soul they can get pretty heavy. They go over the holes in your soul, like when you patch a sock. When you have a hole in your soul, it’s because you’re hurting from something. I don’t know if you noticed, but that girl had a lot of holes.

There’s nothing wrong with you at all. Sometimes people say or do things that are mean because there's something the matter with them. With Lydia, it seems there’s always something wrong with her.

I was almost sad when we arrived a the squat, white clubhouse. It was halfway to dark by then, with both a moon and a sun sitting high in a sky that was sugar almond pink and shot with gold. The birds were singing valiantly against the coming night, swooping over the greens in long, drunken loops. The air was grassy, with a hint of flowers and earth, and the warm, sweet outbreath of the day sighed gently into our hair and over our skin. I felt like asking Raymond whether we should keep walking, walk over the rolling greens, keep walking till the birds fell silent in their bowers and we could see only by starlight. It almost felt like he might suggest it himself.

I cracked one over a row a trailers that bordered the outfield fence- hit it so hard that Ted Williams came running out from the clubhouse wanting to know who it was that could a bat sound that way when it struck a baseball.

The shadow self is what lies beneath the makeup. It’s those ugly parts that you haven’t accepted about yourself. You hide those parts in the shadows until you’re ready.” Her face remained a haunting calm. “When you realize the scars are who you are, that there was nothing wrong with you and that you were beautiful all along - that’s when you decide to take the makeup off.

And I don’t like the Mantle who refused to sign baseballs in the clubhouse before the games. Everybody else had to sign, but Little Pete forged Mantle’s signature. So there are thousands of baseballs around the country that have been signed not by Mickey Mantle, but by Pete Previte.

Alex Rodriguez seemed not to fit in with the rest of his Yankee teammates. For instance, he wanted a clubhouse attendant personally assigned to him, when there were four or five for the whole team. Seeing the rift between him and the rest of the team and how Rodriguez's major focus on how HE was perceived, Joe Torre suggested in the individual meeting that Rodriguez at least get his own coffee rather than send someone to get it for him. Later that day, Alex Rodriguez made a point of telling the manager that he got his own coffee – drawing attention to himself, even in what was meant to be just an example of how he could fit in with normal behavior.

Pastor Daniel, meanwhile, is sipping water on the balcony of a former sailing clubhouse, I ask if he can show me which parts of the Qur'an cause him concern. He tells me he's not the best person to ask. 'I can introduce you to a guy – I wouldn't call myself a scholarly person on Islam.' Strange response, considering his travelling roadshow routine.

Because I am, just as you are you. We don’t always get to pick who we are, Shelly Wynn, but we can choose to celebrate it.

THE SECOND NYX walked into the clubhouse with Giulia’s name tattooed on his throat, there wasn’t much more of a declaration required. I had no doubt that her brand would be somewhere only he could see, because he was a possessive bastard, and the way his arm was around her shoulders reminded me of shit Jocks pulled with their girlfriends as they walked down the hall in school.

Bill wasn’t ever a help with anything now. She used to think Bill was the grandest person in the world. She used to follow after him every place he went—out fishing in the woods, to the clubhouses he built with other boys, to the slot machine in the back of Mr. Brannon’s restaurant—everywhere. Maybe he hadn’t meant to let her down like this. But anyway they could never be good buddies again.

Like you, I grew up in a remote animist village. But then I went to a strict Catholic education in France. I was perfectly content to accept the grand Shee Yee of the Otherworld and the Lord B, and Jesus and his mother as my spiritual icons as long as I didn't have to spend too long on my knees. I would have settled for a committee. I just wanted order. But once I started to see my own ghosts I understood what these religions were all about. They were clubs set up by people like me to stop themselves from going mad. You know what I really think happens? You die. You wait for your number. There's a bit of time to take care of unfinished business. And you pass on. And, as you don't come back, nobody actually knows what you pass on to. But that description has never been acceptable. People want an ending. They don't want to vanish into thin air. So these great religious gurus made some endings up. The more comfortable and happy your ending, the more members signed up and paid their fees. And the kings and emperors started to add rules and regulations to subjugate the commoners and keep them in line. As so they invented hell and told you if you coveted your neighbor's mule you wouldn't even get into the clubhouse at the end of it all.

It had been unusually hot all summer. Ben Cresswell could feel the sun scorching his thighs through his cricket whites as he sat on the clubhouse veranda, waiting for his turn at bat. Colonel Huntley sat beside him, mopping his red and sweaty face. He was wearing pads because he was next up at bat. He wasn’t as good a batsman as Ben, but he was team captain, and in village cricket, seniority often took precedence over ability. Only

Our room swallowed light whole. Even in summer when sunlight glared through the windows, it was somehow dim inside. Now it was only Easter morning, and the muted sky of early spring offered scant relief to our tenebrous room. On our side of the house a gnarled and ancient oak tree spread its reach across the back facade of the house as if to shade and protect us. One of the massive branches of its principal fork reached invitingly right up to our window to offer to take us wherever we wanted to go. This great limb, with circumference grander than both of us together, was our stairway to heaven and our secret exit to the ground; it was our biplane in the Great War of our imaginations and a magic carpet to Araby; it was our lookout post and the clubhouse of our most secret fraternal order; it was our secret passageway through the imaginary castle we made of our house. It was our escape from the darkness into the light.

Hadn’t lived with another bein’ since I was just eighteen at home with my family, but I found Lila in my space thrillin’, like havin’ a new TV or buyin’ a new bike. I was obsessed with bein’ in the apartment if she was gonna be there, eschewin’ the clubhouse and Eugene’s with the brothers every night to climb the steps from my shop to an apartment that suddenly felt like home after fifteen years of livin’ in it. I felt pussy whipped without even havin’ access to the pussy.

You want to sit here in your little fantasy, your little suburban womb. With your laptop, in your little clubhouse, rubbing oil on your guns and congratulating yourself on how brave and strong you turned out to be in the stupid zombie war fantasies that play in your head. You're not a man. You're a boy. All of you. You're little boys because you choose to stay little boys. You don't become a man until you wake up one day and realize that today the world needs you to be a man. Josh, so help me, if you don't step up, and become a man right now, people will die. Tonight. Not tomorrow.

13 core principles of managing: 1. Make a personal connection first; everything else follows. 2. There is only one team rule. (Respect 90) 3. Freedom is empowering. 4. Never hold a team meeting in your home clubhouse. 5. Do not have a fine system. 6. Wear whatever you think makes you look hot. 7. Empower your coaches. 8. But don’t allow your coaches—or veterans—to be harsh on young players. 9. Question data with feel. 10. Pregame work is excessive. 11. Keep signs simple and to a minimum. 12. A lineup card is all a manager needs in the dugout. 13. Forget “The Book.” Making the first or third out at third base is okay.

Are you certain it was Woody who stole the knife?” “Fifteen minutes ago I found him sneaking about the Tigers’ clubhouse,” said Bugs. “He picked up Excalibur—it’s a purple knife and my name is cut into it. He saw me and ran—we bumped as he got out the door. He shoved Excalibur into the pocket of his green pants as he got outside and kept running.” “You didn’t chase him?” “Naw, Woody broke his arm last week, and I don’t fight one-armed kids,” said Bugs. He rolled his eyes toward heaven. “Anyhow, his mother will be my math teacher next year.” “You want me to get the knife back without anyone knowing Woody stole it, is that the idea?” asked Encyclopedia.

It was quiet out in the suburbs; the views were open, with no tenements or high-rise blocks to obscure the distant hills. The light was soft and gentle—summer was drifting ever onward and the evening seemed delicate, fragile. We walked in silence, the kind that you didn’t feel the need to fill. I was almost sad when we arrived at the squat, white clubhouse. It was halfway to dark by then, with both a moon and a sun sitting high in a sky that was sugar almond pink and shot with gold. The birds were singing valiantly against the coming night, swooping over the greens in long, drunken loops. The air was grassy, with a hint of flowers and earth, and the warm, sweet outbreath of the day sighed gently into our hair and over our skin. I felt like asking Raymond whether we should keep walking, walk over the rolling greens, keep walking till the birds fell silent in their bowers and we could see only by starlight. It almost felt like he might suggest it himself.

Weak and trembling from passion, Major Flint found that after a few tottering steps in the direction of Tilling he would be totally unable to get there unless fortified by some strong stimulant, and turned back to the club-house to obtain it. He always went dead-lame when beaten at golf, while Captain Puffin was lame in any circumstances, and the two, no longer on speaking terms, hobbled into the club-house, one after the other, each unconscious of the other's presence. Summoning his last remaining strength Major Flint roared for whisky, and was told that, according to regulation, he could not be served until six. There was lemonade and stone ginger-beer. You might as well have offered a man-eating tiger bread and milk. Even the threat that he would instantly resign his membership unless provided with drink produced no effect on a polite steward, and he sat down to recover as best he might with an old volume of Punch. This seemed to do him little good. His forced abstemiousness was rendered the more intolerable by the fact that Captain Puffin, hobbling in immediately afterwards, fetched from his locker a large flask of the required elixir, and proceeded to mix himself a long, strong tumblerful. After the Major's rudeness in the matter of the half-crown, it was impossible for any sailor of spirit to take the first step towards reconciliation. Thirst is a great leveller. By the time the refreshed Puffin had penetrated half-way down his glass, the Major found it impossible to be proud and proper any longer. He hated saying he was sorry (no man more) and he wouldn't have been sorry if he had been able to get a drink. He twirled his moustache a great many times and cleared his throat--it wanted more than that to clear it--and capitulated. "Upon my word, Puffin, I'm ashamed of myself for--ha!--for not taking my defeat better," he said. "A man's no business to let a game ruffle him." Puffin gave his alto cackling laugh. "Oh, that's all right, Major," he said. "I know it's awfully hard to lose like a gentleman." He let this sink in, then added: "Have a drink, old chap?" Major Flint flew to his feet. "Well, thank ye, thank ye," he said. "Now where's that soda water you offered me just now?" he shouted to the steward. The speed and completeness of the reconciliation was in no way remarkable, for when two men quarrel whenever they meet, it follows that they make it up again with corresponding frequency, else there could be no fresh quarrels at all. This one had been a shade more acute than most, and the drop into amity again was a shade more precipitous.

their mother.” All over England, other citadels of the British class system were falling to the Poles. One 303 Squadron pilot, shot down during the Battle of Britain, parachuted onto an exclusive golf course, landing near the eighth tee. The men playing the hole insisted on carting the dazed flier off to the clubhouse for drinks. Another parachuting pilot drifted into a copse near a private tennis club in the London suburbs. Three club members observed his descent as they awaited the arrival of a fourth for their weekly doubles match. They helped extricate the Pole from the trees and, giving up on their expected fourth, asked if he played. When the young pilot said he did, he was dressed in borrowed white flannels and was soon on the court, borrowed racket in hand.

Rothstein worked with Park Avenue men as beards in the club-house, and with Broadway characters, such as Morris the Boob on The Lawn, and he probably bet away from the track, too.

when we passed the Hells Angels clubhouse they were giving cans of beer out to little kids. “Repeat after me,” ordered a drunken Hells Angel dressed as a Viking warrior. “When I grow up I’m going to be a badass.

friendly.” I sat back down on the couch, tucking my legs underneath me. “Just talk to him, hun. I don’t know Troy as well as I should, but he seems like a good man. Straight to the point, no nonsense.” “Yup, that is definitely the vibe I got off of him also. Plus he told me he’s not into playing games.” Gravel stomped back in the room and tossed his phone onto the coffee table. “Pack your shit, you need to stay at the clubhouse until we clear up the shit storm that followed you. Things are not looking good right now.” Gravel barked. “Wait, what are you talking about?” What the hell had changed from the time Gravel’s phone rang to now? “Mark’s

Here I am! Sorry I’m late, but I had a bit of trouble locating your secret clubhouse. Did I miss anything good?” Three of the four male faces in the room turned to me with astonishment. The fourth shook his adorable head resignedly. “We have not yet started. Out of idle curiosity, how did you find this room?” I donned my most haughty look as I perched myself on the arm of his comfy leather chair. “You expect me to reveal my Guardian secrets? Ha! I think not, plebeian!” Drake’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Ah. The ward at the entrance.” “Dead giveaway,” Jim said, plunking itself down in front of a small fireplace that was merrily blazing.

An expanse of short green grass undulated around sand traps and manicured trees. Up ahead, a multi-winged clubhouse loomed. “Jesus God,” I muttered. “Ninth circle of hell.” “I think they have eighteen at courses like this,” Andy said. “Ha.

The Clubhouse is both spartan and lavish—the tricky balance required by the hardy rich. My distrust of the wealthy and the famous is prejudice, I’m well aware. But my patients have so little—they’d inherit the earth today if there were any justice

The sun had just laid the first orange slices on the horizon. It lit up the manicured grounds of the clubhouse on the rise, the rooftops of the condos in the distance, making the country club look a but like Disney World. Birdie had been to Disney World, but she’d never liked it. It didn’t feel like real life. The view was enough to make a person think that God was smiling on Horatio Balmeade. He would never have to worry about frost, unless it might kill his imported pine trees, which had no business being in Georgia in the first place. A person could assume that his club would never have any problems, that it would always be perfect, and that at some point it was inevitable it would swallow up the mess of the orchard. But Birdie saw it differently. She took it as a good omen that the sun, though it was shining on Horatio Balmeade and all of his glittering property, was the exact same color every morning. That is, it was the exact same color as peaches.

entertaining. I saw some Ramona in my freckled, skinny self. As a member of the Boy-Haters’ Club of America, I especially enjoyed laughing along as she chased Davy around the playground in Ramona the Pest. I didn’t think of myself as a pest, per se, but I did my fair share of terrorizing boys when the moment called for it. The moment often did call for it, since I was a true and loyal member of the BHCA. We met sporadically, whenever we were near the clubhouse, which was more often than you might think since it was an hour away. Our clubhouse was in the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia, on the second floor, behind an exhibit about dinosaurs. A set of carpeted steps led up to a large window with spectacular views that made it the ideal location for our meetings. There were two items on our agenda, and we had already done the first—singing the namesake song. My father wrote it, and the tune’s not very specific; it is most closely related to the opening for a local news show. Because it was so short we often sang it multiple times, as we did that day, the quality of our performances going down with each repetition. Once we’d settled down from that, it was time for the second half of our club business.

When you have an unexpected crush on your childhood best friend, you spend a lot of time imagining the way you might kiss him one day. The fantasies I entertained of this moment were ridiculous cliches, based on movies and TV shows, and the romance novels I used to find in the pool clubhouse at Grandma Clark's condo. These scenarios often involved a helicopter over the Grand Canyon, a ski lift in Colorado, the top of the Eiffel Tower amid fireworks, or an unspecified beach in California.

Later, I learned a golfer was hitting from the ninth tee with his comrades. He had been drinking a few beers and thought he could drive the green. His aim was dangerously off, and he managed to hit the golf ball over the clubhouse, a mere 200 yards away. To my misfortune, it struck me on the head with the force of something much larger. My young, vibrant, and motivated life, as I knew it, changed in an instant.

Executives at state-owned enterprises love to build hotels because they can use them like clubhouses to entertain contacts or woo mistresses, all at state expense.

When I come into this clubhouse, if I am dejected and I am depressed and I am tired and my players see me that way, what is the attitude and the atmosphere of the clubhouse going to be? If I walk in full of enthusiasm, full of self-confidence, and proud to be putting that uniform on, all of those things are also contagious. That’s the attitude this team will have.” – Tommy Lasorda, 2-Time World Series-Winning Manager

Judy hung her head and slunk to the back of the room. She crawled inside the tent. It was kind of like the Toad Pee Club clubhouse inside. Minus any peeing toads, of course. Natch.

The Monks of St Giles is a club. It still exists – still meets. They give themselves Latin names and they meet and compose poetry. They even have a clubhouse, but I'm not going to tell you where it is. Some very influential people are members. And it sounds terrific fun, since they wear robes, but there'd be such a fuss if word got out. Can you imagine the prying, humourless journalists who would love to have a go at them? I can. Composing poetry in private! Not the sort of thing we want in an inclusive Scotland, where everybody will have to be able to read everybody else's poetry!

building is the central club-house of a community of a thousand or more Negroes. Various organizations meet here—the church proper, the Sunday-school, two or three insurance societies, women’s societies, secret societies, and mass meetings of various kinds. Entertainments, suppers, and lectures are held beside the five or six regular weekly religious services. Considerable sums of money are collected and expended here, employment is found for the idle, strangers are introduced, news is disseminated and charity distributed. At the same time this social, intellectual, and economic centre is a religious centre of great power.

if you want a terrific not-crowded beach, drive out to Miacomet Golf Course, but just before you reach the clubhouse, take a right onto the dirt road that leads past the big antenna.

and parking is often an issue. None of these is my favorite. I have thought long and hard and decided not to name my preferred south shore beach, because what I love about it is it’s not popular and never very crowded except by locals and summer residents. Because I feel guilty for holding back, I will say that if you want a terrific not-crowded beach, drive out to Miacomet Golf Course, but just before you reach the clubhouse, take a right onto the dirt road that leads past the big antenna.

You are coming over to the clubhouse." "No, I'm not." "Christ. Are we going to argue about this for twenty minutes, wasting both our time first, or can we just cut to the chase?" I asked. "You're coming with me, even if I have to toss you over my shoulder. And if I have to pack your shit, it's going to be thongs and that is it.

Eisman took the cart to the clubhouse and bought a hoodie. The hoodie covered up his t-shirt and made him look a lot like a guy who had just bought a hoodie to cover up his t-shirt.

place to play, and then build the clubhouse,

Heroes are for the weak, Axel. If I escape, it will be all on me.

All I want when you're away from me is to haul your ass to the clubhouse, where you belong, with me. All the time. Out in the open. Not coming to me like I’m your dirty secret.

The term in baseball nowadays is a “walk-off home run.” It didn’t exist until Kirk Gibson hit his famous pinch-hit home run off Dennis Eckersley in game one of the 1988 World Series and Eckersley referred to it as “a walk-off,” meaning, quite simply, that when someone does what Gibson did to him in that game, there’s nothing left to do except walk off the mound into the dugout and then into the clubhouse.

People don’t change, Axel, they simply take paths that lead them down roads which are sometimes damaging. It doesn’t change who they are, it merely adds to it. You’re there, somewhere, past all that darkness and brooding.

After missing the cut at the 1957 Masters because of poor putting, Hogan retired to the clubhouse and suggested that putting should no longer be a part of the game. “If I had my way,” Hogan grumbled, “every golf green would be made into a huge funnel. You hit the funnel and the ball would roll down a pipe into the hole. I’ve always considered that golf is one game,” Hogan added, “and putting another.

Soon, all the children were chanting it. “No school! No school!

Aloha Oukou. It looked like your soul was escaping so I put you in a tree.

I’m afraid they’re not coming.” Abby said fearfully. “Our parents, our teachers – everyone! They’ve disappeared. That’s it. Lights out, Shelly. We’re on our own.

Somehow her hula hoop had cut into the driver’s side door like the vehicle was made of cheese.

She could spin it between her legs, skip with it, twirl it around her neck and transfer it from one arm to the other. Shelly hooped because she enjoyed it; it calmed her whenever she would have an argument or a bad day at school, and it also allowed her to think. Today, she needed to hoop more than ever.

Shelly shook her head and made sure she had plenty of space so that she wouldn’t hit anything. As many times before, she kept the hoop close to her waist and then twirled it with small, tight bursts of speed. As the hoop gathered in momentum it started to give off a hum that soon took on a light blue illumination far brighter than the streetlamps. It was so bright, that it lit up the entire backyard.

I stopped being a little Christ and instead began filling out the application that I had labeled Christian. It was not a definition based on the actual namesake, but rather on those who frequent the clubhouse. And in the midst of being an American Christian among all the other American Christians, I stopped truly searching the nuances of who Christ was and is in order to fully grasp what a little Christ might, indeed, act like.

Theology gets us to the ballpark; memorized Scripture, into the clubhouse.

Lydia displays her right hand and instantly bathed the room with a blinding light. It lasted only a moment before it drew back into her palm. “I can fix you if you’re ever broken.

It’s no big deal. It’s kind of like a tattoo. It won’t hurt, not too much, just a few stitches and it’ll be all over. It’s really interesting how it’s done. You won’t believe where your soul hides. Go on, take a guess. Where do you think it is?

Gangs were unusual things. They were like fraternities, only meaner. They often had their own clubhouses and uniforms and they could be as tight-knit as families. I could never understand why guys gave so much to such a random collection of people. Why they were willing to die for some emblem that wouldn’t even notice they were gone.

The space reminded me of the small hay-bale clubhouses and scrap-wood tree forts that my brothers and I had made as kids - high up spaces where you could see things differently, where you could get your bearings.

The clubhouse on the golf links was

Sweet baby Jesus, what do I have to do? Sing Closer to Fine a hundred times to earn the password to the lesbian clubhouse?” She

Emerging from the next chalet in the row was a young woman, probably mid-twenties he guessed, about medium height and build, with dark brown bobbed hair. She was clutching an arm full of books and a cup of coffee. That he had taken all this in, in a single glance, was remarkable. As he had simultaneously taken the fact, she was absolutely naked… “Good morning Miss!” “Miss? I never call anyone Miss! She could be married! A radical feminist! And I have just insulted her! I should have said Mizz, or Mam’, Oh God!” The thoughts raced through Addy’s panic-stricken mind. “There has been a spot of trouble at the clubhouse.” Professional, act professional. “I am making a few enquiries, I’d like to come back and ask you a few questions when …” Professional, you’re a professional, Man up! “… When you have … got yourself sorted out.” Phew!!

Just open it.” In it, a glove, a fielder’s glove. “I had it when we played in Oakland. But I didn’t take care of it right. It just sat in the back of my closet in Miami. By the time it got up here, it was falling apart, so I had to recondition it.” He washed it with soap and a harsh sponge, oiling it, getting someone at the Union clubhouse to rethread the laces, replacing the ones that dried out and snapped. “I don’t know. It’s dumb. I probably should have gotten you something else.

Tempe is feisty as fuck. She kicked me in the shins and tried to knock me out in my own damn clubhouse—my own fucking bedroom. The girl is a fighter. I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so pissed off about it.

In their diaries and letters, these early adopters make clear the appeal of a fraternity, a uniform, a clubhouse, and regular meetings to boys hungry for structure and belonging. Especially if you were twenty-two, lowly at work, bored in your boardinghouse, and looking for something to fill your evenings as winter turned to spring.11

You’re awfully judgemental for someone who met me yesterday.” I shrug because he’s not wrong. “Be less of an asshole, and maybe I’ll get a different opinion.” “Says the girl who broke into my clubhouse.” “Can’t break in if all the doors were open.

Maybe what I needed, finally, was to wake up to that voice inside of me, and acknowledge, finally and fully, what it was trying to tell me: ONE DAY YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. It is the simplest truth of them all, and yet it is the one we fight the hardest. We push it away. We procrastinate. Death is something that happens to other people, or else to us in a future so distant it's the same thing as "never." We prioritize all the things that matter the least at the expense of those that matter most. People wait entire lifetimes to see the Great Wall of China until they are too sick to travel, and save the bottle of Veuve Clicquot till they can't drink anymore. We wait till tomorrow to make that important phone call, until Friday to wear the purple lipstick, or for the summer to start working on the clubhouse for the kids. Before we know it, we have an illness, then a diagnosis, then we are knocking at death's door. Life is now. It's right here. This is it. The past is just a series of memories coded in the hippocampus. Tomorrow, forever a day away, is a myth and an illusion of our brain's insistence on linear time. This moment is the only one that exists. In the very next moment, you could also be gone, a memory in someone else's hippocampus.

Birla Ojasvi in RR Nagar, West Bangalore, offers 630 premium apartments and 8-row houses on 10.5 acres with 80% open space. Featuring serene forest views, a Sky Club, and a 25,000 sq. ft. clubhouse, it combines nature with luxury. Enjoy modern living near major IT hubs and top amenities.

But… sitting with you in the neighborhood and standing with you at the clubhouse… you’re my home too, Lyla.

But ever since we kissed in front of the clubhouse, there’s no denying what I’ve been scared to face. We’re becoming more. We’re stealing time we don’t have—moments we shouldn’t want.

On the internet today, everyone is on show all the time. Everything you tweet or post, your LinkedIn bio, every recorded speech you make on Clubhouse, or even a dedicated website about you all represent who you are on the internet. So leverage it!

Kissing her is one thing. Fucking her is asking to have my dick chopped off and hung on the clubhouse wall as a warning to all the other members to stay the fuck away from his daughter.

She’s the only person in the clubhouse who has ever mattered. The only light those walls have ever seen. And she’s pulling away from me.

That girl has been getting in my head lately. Hanging around the clubhouse, reading fortunes like some kind of spell-casting temptress who won’t leave my fucking mind. Showing up at parties, knowing she’s eighteen now and there’s nothing I can do about it. Walking around in her fishnets and itty-bitty skirts, looking too grown up. Acting like she isn’t trouble just waiting to happen.

We are walking along the path on the way to the golf course. The clubhouse is behind us, and out in front of you, the whole of your golfing experience lies ahead, waiting to be discovered and all rather exciting. Along the path you see a fork ahead, a large sign catches your eye that says, “Accept your good shots, but after every bad shot, stop, analyse what you did wrong, correct it, and move on.” ……Seemingly logical advice, and one would imagine you need to find out what you are doing wrong and correct it to progress. This all sounds fine. However, as you look down the path along the other side of the fork, a little in the distance and slightly more obscure—is a smaller sign—a sign that has a different message. It says, “Accept your bad shots, but after every good shot, stop, replay it through your mind, imagine what it felt like, remember it, and move on.

That frying pan is looking better and better to me,” she muttered under her breath. “I think we’re going to have to hang one on the wall in every room, both here and at the clubhouse

Baseball player’s description of Cincinnati: “Horseshit park, horseshit clubhouse, horseshit hotel, lots of movies, nice place to eat after the game, tough town to get laid in.” We had to wait for an hour-and-a-half at the airport because there were no taxis and our bus didn’t arrive on time. It was three in the morning, but that’s no excuse. And do you know that all you can hear at the Cincinnati airport at three in the morning are crickets? Goddam crickets? While we were standing there Larry Dierker said, “This city isn’t a completely lost cause. Look, they’ve got one of those computer IQ games.” So we walked over, dropped a couple of quarters in and discovered the machine was broken.

Tommy Lasorda, manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers for four National League pennants and two World Series championships, said in an interview with Fortune magazine: Happy people give better performances. I want my players to know that I appreciate what they do for me. See, I believe in hugging my players. I believe in patting them on the back. People say, “God you mean to tell me you’ve got a guy making a million and half dollars a year and got to motivate him?” I say, absolutely. Everybody needs to be motivated, from the President of the United States on down to the guy who works in the clubhouse.

I gave Razer his chance. Has he used it?” Lucky decided to change topics and acknowledge the elephant in the room. “I’ve avoided her and her calls, but I’m not waiting forever for Razer to make up his mind.” “He waited for you. When the other men in the unit left your ass in that village, Razer waited. You kept him waiting for three days while you helped that sick family. Razer got you back to the unit safely when no one else gave a fuck. He put his life on the line for you.” “I don’t need you to remind me; I remember. What am I supposed to do, just pretend I don’t care about her?” “Let’s be real, Lucky; you don’t. She’s a beautiful woman, and you haven’t had any pussy for a couple of years. I told you to pretend to go on a sabbatical for a couple of days and visit the Ohio clubhouse.” “I won’t do that.” Shade shook his head. “Then, brother, I suggest you pull out the soap and grab a shower, because Beth isn’t going to be the one to help you with your blue balls. Razer will make his move.” Lucky took a seat behind his desk, picking up a pencil to hold in a tight grip. “What did you come here for, Shade?

The scream is the great multitasker of human expression. It covers agony, ecstasy, relief, frustration. It's especially useful when you're at a loss for words. Tiger did a lot of screaming that afternoon. With Joe. Coming off the green by himself. Walking toward the clubhouse, in response to his fans. His people. Primal screaming, his mouth so open you could count his teeth. Golf is famously a game for whispering. Roger Maltbie, in the NBC Sports trailers, is the Golf Whisperer. Spectators use their library voices. Players and caddies confer quietly. Golf, Calvinist by origin and reserved by tradition, had never heard such screaming, the likes of Tiger Woods, either. Tiger had won at Augusta, the place where he got the first of his fifteen, and a dam had burst.