Coach's Wife Quotes

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Reyna put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Coach, we’ll get you to your wife, but let’s do it right. Tyson, how did you and Ella get out to this ship?’ ‘Rainbow!’ ‘You … took a rainbow?’ ‘He is my fish pony friend.’ ‘A hippocampus,’ Nico advised.
Rick Riordan (The Blood of Olympus (The Heroes of Olympus, #5))
Succeeding in life and business is like falling in love with your wife (for those of you that are married). You can’t leave your wife at the mercy of another man and feel safe.
Nkem Paul
...that the husband should be the one in constant attendance. Because of his love relationship with his wife, he is far more capable of achieving cooperation and helping her self-control than any attending doctor.
Robert A. Bradley (Husband-Coached Childbirth: The Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth)
If I could ban some of you from ever opening your mouth in public, I would, but this is out of my hands. Attempt to behave yourselves without sacrificing your confident image. Think you can do that?" "You're no fun, Coach," Nicky said. "I will be a lot less fun if you make us look like fools," Wymack said. "But I'm not as worried about you as I am about our resident punching bag and his smart mouth. Anyone have ideas on how to make Neil look a bit less like a battered wife?
Nora Sakavic (The King's Men (All for the Game, #3))
Having a brain does not make you a thinker. Having a student does not make you a teacher. Having a class does not make you a scholar. Having a degree does not make you a master. Having a sword does not make you a warrior. Having a following does not make you a leader. Having a position does not make you a ruler. Having an army does not make you a conqueror. Having a job does not mean you have a career. Having a servant does not mean you have a helper. Having a mom does not mean you have a nurturer. Having a girlfriend does not mean you have comforter. Having a coach does not mean you have a trainer. Having a class does not mean you have a teacher. Having a son does not mean you have a successor. Having a daughter does not mean you have an inheritor. Having a wife does not mean you have a lover. Having a spouse does not mean you have an admirer. Having a friend does not mean you have a partner. Having a dad does not mean you have a father. Having a professor does not mean you have a teacher. Having a teammate does not mean you have a collaborator. Having an ally does not mean you have a protector. Having a dependent does not mean you have a supporter.
Matshona Dhliwayo
I love her. When we’re done with school, I’m going to propose and make her my wife. And I can’t fucking wait.
Sara Ney (The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag, #4))
Thanks! Coach’s wife asked me to bring her a glass of white wine. Do you think she meant the chardonnay, or the pinot blanc?” “Sorry, Bella, but I’m not that kind of gay friend. I wouldn’t know a pinot blanc if it bit me in the ass.
Sarina Bowen (The Understatement of the Year (The Ivy Years, #3))
Not a day goes by without many thousands of people each having sex with their girlfriend, boyfriend, wife, or husband, only because the person they are cheating with is busy, not in the mood, sick, on her period, tired, or not around.
Mokokoma Mokhonoana
I’m going to miss all the takeout,” Jason said later, after dinner, when I walked him out to his car. “Coach said his wife cooks their meals every night.” “That’s really why you’re leaving, isn’t it?” I asked. “For real home-cooked meals?
Rachel Hawthorne (The Boyfriend League)
The drug dealer, the ducking and diving political leader, the wife beater, the chronically “crabby” boss, the “hot shot” junior executive, the unfaithful husband, the company “yes man,” the indifferent graduate school adviser, the “holier than thou” minister, the gang member, the father who can never find the time to attend his daughter’s school programs, the coach who ridicules his star athletes, the therapist who unconsciously attacks his clients’ “shining” and seeks a kind of gray normalcy for them, the yuppie—all these men have something in common. They are all boys pretending to be men. They got that way honestly, because nobody showed them what a mature man is like. Their kind of “manhood” is a pretense to manhood that goes largely undetected as such by most of us. We are continually mistaking this man’s controlling, threatening, and hostile behaviors for strength. In reality, he is showing an underlying extreme vulnerability and weakness, the vulnerability of the wounded boy.
Robert L. Moore (King, Warrior, Magician, Lover: Rediscovering the Archetypes of the Mature Masculine)
It seemed to him that she looked completely at home in the classic truck, but then, he supposed that spoke more of her personality than of the vehicle. She was probably at home...wherever she was planted. Ha! That thought had come straight from his wife. She was always admonishing the boys, "Bloom where you're planted." By the time they were in high school, they'd learned it did no good complaining to their mother about teachers, coaches, or chores. Her response was consistent throughout their road to adulthood.
Vannetta Chapman (Murder Simply Brewed (Amish Village Mystery #1))
In Christian circles, it is common for the husband to assume that his personal call is the priority in the marriage, and to simply fold his wife’s energy and abilities into that pursuit, instead of making it a priority to pursue her heart and draw out her unique destiny.
Tony Stoltzfus (A Leader's Life Purpose Workbook: Calling and Destiny Discovery Tools for Christian Life Coaching)
I’m going to miss all the takeout,” Jason said later, after dinner, when I walked him out to his car. “Coach said his wife cooks their meals every night.” “That’s really why you’re leaving, isn’t it?” I asked. “For real home-cooked meals?” He put his hands on my waist, drew me near. “If you knew how hard I found it to stay on my side of the hall last night after we finished watching the movie…” He shook his head. “Your parents absolutely wouldn’t approve of the direction that my thoughts are going. With or without your mom’s contract, I’d move out.
Rachel Hawthorne (The Boyfriend League)
Tonight isn’t about racing to the finish line, it’s about savoring our connection, savoring who we become when we are together,” he coached, causing her breathing to slow with his words, reminding her that he would not tolerate being topped tonight, that she needed to enjoy the journey they were beginning together.
Josie Leigh (The Wife (The Professor, #4))
Listen, does your boy know how to work? Try to teach him to work, to sacrifice, to fight. He better learn now, because he’s going to have to do it some day. Lloyd Hale was a sophomore on that first team we took to Junction, and he asked me one time what I meant by “fight.” Well, I don’t mean fistfight, like we used to do back in Arkansas, I told him. I mean, some morning when you’ve been out of school twenty years and you wake up and your house has burned down and your mother is in the hospital and the kids are all sick and you’re overdrawn at the bank and your wife has run off with the drummer, what are you going to do? Throw in?
Paul W. Bryant (Bear: The Hard Life & Good Times of Alabama's Coach Bryant)
West was the only officer on the quarterdeck, and it so happened that the party of hands making dolphins and paunch-mats on the forecastle were all Shelmerstonians. West was gaping rather vacantly over the taffrail when he saw an extraordinarily handsome woman ride along the quay, followed by a groom. She dismounted at the height of the ship, gave the groom her reins, and darted straight across the brow and so below.    'Hey there,' he cried, hurrying after her, 'this is Dr Maturin's cabin. Who are you, ma'am?'    'I am his wife, sir,' she said, 'and I beg you will desire the carpenter to sling a cot for me here.' She pointed, and then bending and peering out of the scuttle she cried 'Here they are. Pray let people stand by to help him aboard: he will be lying on a door.' She urged West out of the cabin and on deck, and there he and the amazed foremast hands saw a blue and gold coach and four, escorted by a troop of cavalry in mauve coats with silver facings, driving slowly along the quay with their captain and a Swedish officer on the box, their surgeon and his mate leaning out of the windows, and all of them, now joined by the lady on deck, singing Ah tutti contenti saremo cosí, ah tutti contenti saremo, saremo cosí with surprisingly melodious full-throated happiness.
Patrick O'Brian (The Letter of Marque (Aubrey & Maturin, #12))
The Mad Gardener's Song He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. 'At length I realise,' he said, 'The bitterness of Life!' He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister's Husband's Niece. 'Unless you leave this house,' he said, 'I'll send for the Police!' He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. 'The one thing I regret,' he said, 'Is that it cannot speak!' He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus. 'If this should stay to dine,' he said, 'There won't be much for us!' He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill. 'Were I to swallow this,' he said, 'I should be very ill!' He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head. 'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!' He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage Stamp. 'You'd best be getting home,' he said: 'The nights are very damp!' He thought he saw a Garden-Door That opened with a key: He looked again, and found it was A Double Rule of Three: 'And all its mystery,' he said, 'Is clear as day to me!' He thought he saw a Argument That proved he was the Pope: He looked again, and found it was A Bar of Mottled Soap. 'A fact so dread,' he faintly said, 'Extinguishes all hope!
Lewis Carroll (Sylvie and Bruno)
Grace commanded the second pew, her whole family jammed together, the six of them sour yet insistent, like the richest people flying coach, while behind her sat Charles Jr., never Charlie or Chuck, with his two girls, the ever blonde and blonder copies of his wife, who was six months pregnant with what I could only imagine was a blinding ball of blazing white light.
David Gilbert
Marla dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands as she watched the Coyotes struggle, without success, to make up the twelve-point deficit. It was hot in the arena, and the players were perspiring heavily. Neal was substituting often in order to give them water, but the heat was wearing them down, and the Cougars managed to outscore the Coyotes seventeen to two at the opening of the second half.
Barbara Casey (The Coach's Wife)
The village of Gretna Green lay in the county of Dumfriesshire, just north of the border between England and Scotland. In defiance of the strict marriage laws of England, hundreds of couples had traveled the coaching road from London, through Carlisle, to Gretna Green. They came on foot, by carriage or horseback, seeking an asylum, where they could say their marriage vows and return to England as man and wife.
Lisa Kleypas (Devil in Winter (Wallflowers, #3))
GIVEN A CHOICE between death and the Buford Zippy Mart, Nico would’ve had a tough time deciding. At least he knew his way around the Land of the Dead. Plus the food was fresher. ‘I still don’t get it,’ Coach Hedge muttered as they roamed the centre aisle. ‘They named a whole town after Leo’s table?’ ‘I think the town was here first, Coach,’ Nico said. ‘Huh.’ The coach picked up a box of powdered doughnuts. ‘Maybe you’re right. These look at least a hundred years old. I miss those Portuguese farturas.’ Nico couldn’t think about Portugal without his arms hurting. Across his biceps, the werewolf claw marks were still swollen and red. The store clerk had asked Nico if he’d picked a fight with a bobcat. They bought a first-aid kit, a pad of paper (so Coach Hedge could write more paper aeroplane messages to his wife), some junk food and soda (since the banquet table in Reyna’s new magic tent only provided healthy food and fresh water) and some miscellaneous camping supplies for Coach Hedge’s useless but impressively complicated monster traps.
Rick Riordan (The Blood of Olympus (The Heroes of Olympus, #5))
As his wife later observed, the people who saw George Marshall as simply modest or quiet missed what was special about the man. He had the same traits that everyone has—ego, self-interest, pride, dignity, ambition—but they were “tempered by a sense of humility and selflessness.” It doesn’t make you a bad person to want to be remembered. To want to make it to the top. To provide for yourself and your family. After all, that’s all part of the allure. There is a balance. Soccer coach Tony Adams expresses it well. Play for the name on the front of the jersey, he says, and they’ll remember the name on the back.
Ryan Holiday (Ego Is the Enemy)
From somewhere Marla heard a terrifying scream--her scream--and she lunged at Martin, hitting him in the chest. When she hit him once, she couldn't stop. All of those times he had hurt her, and all of those times she had lied for him, protecting him so no one would find out. After all, he was a professional man, a doctor. He could be ruined if something like that got out. The good, kind doctor. He took care of people. He took care of her. She was one of those pitiful, unfortunate people who seemed to always have accidents. Bruises on her face and body, cuts and abrasions. It was so nice she was married to such a good doctor. Everyone admired him--auch a wonderful man. But he didn't hurt them. Only her. And now, Gale.
Barbara Casey (The Coach's Wife)
4 May.—I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count, directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not understand my German. This could not be true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he answered my questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old lady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. It was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask any one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means comforting.
Bram Stoker (Dracula)
Ethan! What on earth are you doing?" "Excuse us,please.It is very warm in here and my wife has begun to feel a little faint." With a smile fixed on his face,giving a series of the same brief explanation,he carried her through the crush,out the front door of the mansion,along the gravel drive to where his carriage was parked. "Home,Jennings," he said to the coachman as a footman opened the door. "And don't spare the horses." Setting her swiftly on the carriage seat, he climbed in and took a place beside her. "Are you insane?" Grace stared at him with disbelief as the matched pair of grays stepped into their traces and the coach jolted forward. "We can't just leave. We're the guests of honor! What will people think?" "They will thank that I am ravenous for my wife's lovely body,and I am." "But-" "Another word,Grace, and I swear I will take you right here." Her eyes widened for an instant, then she sat back on the seat of the carriage, careful to keep facing forward, casting him only an occasional sideways glance. If his body hadn't been throbbing with such urgent need,he might have smiled.
Kat Martin (The Devil's Necklace (Necklace Trilogy, #2))
At eight-thirty that night Ian stood on the steps outside Elizabeth’s uncle’s town house suppressing an almost overwhelming desire to murder Elizabeth’s butler, who seemed to be inexplicably fighting down the impulse to do bodily injury to Ian. “I will ask you again, in case you misunderstood me the last time,” Ian enunciated in a silky, ominous tone that made ordinary men blanch. “Where is your mistress?” Bentner didn’t change color by so much as a shade. “Out!” he informed the man who’d ruined his young mistress’s life and had now appeared on her doorstep, unexpected and uninvited, no doubt to try to ruin it again, when she was at this very moment attending her first ball in years and trying bravely to live down the gossip he had caused. “She is out, but you do not know where she is?” “I did not say so, did I?” “Then where is she?” “That is for me to know and you to ponder.” In the last several days Ian had been forced to do a great many unpleasant things, including riding across half of England, dealing with Christina’s irate father, and finally dealing with Elizabeth’s repugnant uncle, who had driven a bargain that still infuriated him. Ian had magnanimously declined her dowry as soon as the discussion began. Her uncle, however, had the finely honed bargaining instincts of a camel trader, and he immediately sensed Ian’s determination to do whatever was necessary to get Julius’s name on a betrothal contract. As a result, Ian was the first man to his knowledge who had ever been put in the position of purchasing his future wife for a ransom of $150,000. Once he’d finished that repugnant ordeal he’d ridden off to Montmayne, where he’d sopped only long enough to switch his horse for a coach and get his valet out of bed. Then he’d charged off to London, stopped at his town house to bathe and change, and gone straight to the address Julius Cameron had given him. Now, after all that, Ian was not only confronted by Elizabeth’s absence, he was confronted by the most insolent servant he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. In angry silence he turned and walked down the steps. Behind him the door slammed shut with a thundering crash, and Ian paused a moment to turn back and contemplate the pleasure he was going to have when he sacked the butler tomorrow.
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
In the same vein, Rupert knew that he'd found his own ideal match,too. He just couldn't imagine how he was going to convince her of it. But that wasn't what he was thinking about on the ride home. Unable to take his eyes off of his wife,he said, "There's something about riding in a coach with you that drives me crazy." Rebecca's dark blue eyes flared, but she didn't protest when he moved across to her seat and gathered her into his arms. Catching his wife off guard did have its advantages, which was fortunate, because she really did inflame his passions without even trying. One heady taste of her and most of his control was gone. "Could it be because we nearly made love in this coach before?" he said against her lips. "Or could it be because I suspect you were sitting here earlier tonight thinking of me with my breeches off?" Rebecca gasped but he just thrust his tongue deeply inside her until she no longer seemed to feel like upbraiding him for that teasing remark. He loved teasing her. It was too bad she was rarely in a mood for it. Unfortunately,she didn't let his remark go unanswered, though they were nearly home before she pulled away from his arms to say breathlessly, "I was doing nothing of the sort.
Johanna Lindsey (A Rogue of My Own (Reid Family, #3))
We have to find a way to push them together,” Minerva said. “You know perfectly well that if Oliver marries, Gran will forget this ridiculous idea of hers about the rest of us marrying. She just wants him to produce an heir” Hetty’s eyebrows shot high. Her granddaughter had a big surprise coming down the road. “And you’re willing to throw him under the wheels of the coach to save yourself, is that it?” Jarret quipped. “No!” Her voice softened. “You and I both know he needs someone to drag him out of himself. Or he’s just going to get scarier as he gets older.” She paused. “Did you tell him about Miss Butterfield’s being an heiress?” That certainly arrested Hetty’s attention. She hadn’t dreamed that the girl had money. “Yes, but I fear that might have been a mistake-when I suggested that he marry her for her fortune, he got angry.” Of course he got angry, you fool, Hetty thought with a roll of her eyes. Honestly, did her grandson know nothing about his brother? “For goodness sake, Jarret, you weren’t supposed to suggest that. You were supposed to get him concerned that she might fall prey to fortune hunters.” At least Minerva had a brain. “Damn,” Jarret said. “Then I probably shouldn’t have exaggerated the amount.” “Oh, Lord.” Minerva sighed. “By how much?” “I kind of…tripled it.” Minerva released an unladylike oath. “Why did you do that? Now he won’t go near her. Haven’t you noticed how much he hates talk of marrying for money?” “Men say things like that, but in the end they’re practical.” “Not Oliver! You’ve just ruined everything!” “Don’t be so dramatic,” Jarret said. “Besides, I have a plan-I laid the seeds for it before I even left Oliver’s study. Come, let’s go talk to the others. It will take all of us working together.” His voice receded as the two of them apparently left the room. “If we merely…” Hetty strained to hear, but she lost the thread of the conversation. Not that it mattered. A smile tugged at her mouth. It appeared she would not have to carry off this match alone. All she need do was sit back and watch Jarret work on Oliver. In the meantime, she would let Minerva go on thinking that finding Oliver a wife would solve their dilemma. That would spur the girl to try harder. In the end, it didn’t matter why or how they managed it, as long as they did. Thank God her grandchildren had inherited her capacity for scheming. It made her proud. So Oliver thought he was going to get around her this time, did he? Well, he was in for a shock. This time he had more than just her to worry about. And with every one of the Sharpe children on Miss Butterfield’s side? She laughed. Poor Oliver didn’t stand a chance.
Sabrina Jeffries (The Truth About Lord Stoneville (Hellions of Halstead Hall, #1))
I’m going to miss all the takeout,” Jason said later, after dinner, when I walked him out to his car. “Coach said his wife cooks their meals every night.” “That’s really why you’re leaving, isn’t it?” I asked. “For real home-cooked meals?” He put his hands on my waist, drew me near. “If you knew how hard I found it to stay on my side of the hall last night after we finished watching the movie…” He shook his head. “Your parents absolutely wouldn’t approve of the direction that my thoughts are going. With or without your mom’s contract, I’d move out.” “I can’t believe she did that.” He grinned. “Yeah, it was that first night, after she came out of your room.” “Weren’t you offended?” “How could I be? I started falling for you as soon as you bumped into me. I knew I could be a goner so easily.” “Really?” “Oh, yeah. And when I pictured you in shoulder pads and a helmet--” I shoved his shoulder. “You did not!” “Oh, yeah, I did. And I thought, of all the girls in this town, she is the one that I absolutely can’t find fascinating.” “Is that the reason you sounded like you really didn’t want to take me home after that first night of pizza?” “Yep. I wanted to limit contact. I was trying so hard not to fall for you.” “Well, that’s why I knocked you over,” I said. He laughed. “Will you still come play ball with Dad?” “Sure. But you have to play, too.” I smiled. “Okay.” It was so, so hard--a dozen kisses later--watching him leave. But at least I knew he’d be back.
Rachel Hawthorne (The Boyfriend League)
Christopher observed the passage of the coach from his sight and then turned his gaze to the pair of men who approached them. It was Farrell and Captain Daniels, and while the latter was smiling broadly, the former frowned in sharp disapproval at the couple. Christopher thrust out a hand in greeting to his captain, then looked to his wife’s brother. “Farrell, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” Christopher smiled as he extended his hand. “I am Lord Saxton.” The young man’s eyes widened, and he searched the softly smiling visage of his sister as he mechanically accepted the hand. “Lord Saxton? The Lord Saxton?” “Aye, I am the one who wore the mask and walked with a limp,” Christopher confessed. “ ’Twas done partly to fool the thieves into believing the man they had murdered was still alive, and then too, I desired to wed your sister and found no other way. I hope you will value the friendship we began when you knew me as the cripple.” Farrell tried to grasp all the facts and put them together in their proper places. “You are really married to my sister, and you are the father of her…” Erienne blushed as she glanced hesitantly toward the sea captain, who seemed to be enjoying the whole exchange. His smile broadened as her husband gave a reply. “You needn’t sharpen your skill with firearms to avenge your sister’s honor,” Christopher replied. The teasing gleam in his eyes shone brighter. “ ’Twas quite properly made, I assure you.” -Christopher & Farrell
Kathleen E. Woodiwiss (A Rose in Winter)
Before Chris passed away, I’d volunteered to coach Angel’s soccer team in our local recreational league. It was a commitment I vowed to keep. I was determined to show those little girls how to succeed on the soccer “pitch,” as the field is sometimes called. I may have gone a little overboard. I mean, how many six-year-old girls have the misfortune of being coached by the wife of a SEAL? Day One: “We start by running!” I shouted enthusiastically. “Everyone run around the park. Let’s go.” “The soccer field, Mrs. Kyle?” asked a player. “No! The entire complex. Come on!” I’m guessing it was maybe five or six times as far as they’d ever run before--or maybe ten or twenty--and a good deal farther than many teams with considerably older players ran. But the girls were good sports about it. We built endurance and worked on drills, and we had fun--you never knew when the coach might grab one the of the players and twirl her around enthusiastically for doing a good job. “I’m taking goal,” I’d say when shooting practice wasn’t going well. “Anyone who can hurt me gets an extra piece of candy!” I gave out a lot of candy that afternoon. We were a young team and a little rough at first, but we got better as we went. It was fun to watch the transition many of the girls made over the length of the season--they not only got in better shape and learned to play soccer better, but they seemed more confident as well. I will guarantee one thing: they slept pretty well the nights after practice.
Taya Kyle (American Wife: Love, War, Faith, and Renewal)
Cohen continued to struggle with his own well-being. Even though he had achieved his life’s dream of running his own firm, he was still unhappy, and he had become dependent on a psychiatrist named Ari Kiev to help him manage his moods. In addition to treating depression, Kiev’s other area of expertise was success and how to achieve it. He had worked as a psychiatrist and coach with Olympic basketball players and rowers trying to improve their performance and overcome their fear of failure. His background building athletic champions appealed to Cohen’s unrelenting need to dominate in every transaction he entered into, and he started asking Kiev to spend entire days at SAC’s offices, tending to his staff. Kiev was tall, with a bushy mustache and a portly midsection, and he would often appear silently at a trader’s side and ask him how he was feeling. Sometimes the trader would be so startled to see Kiev there he’d practically jump out of his seat. Cohen asked Kiev to give motivational speeches to his employees, to help them get over their anxieties about losing money. Basically, Kiev was there to teach them to be ruthless. Once a week, after the market closed, Cohen’s traders would gather in a conference room and Kiev would lead them through group therapy sessions focused on how to make them more comfortable with risk. Kiev had them talk about their trades and try to understand why some had gone well and others hadn’t. “Are you really motivated to make as much money as you can? This guy’s going to help you become a real killer at it,” was how one skeptical staff member remembered Kiev being pitched to them. Kiev’s work with Olympians had led him to believe that the thing that blocked most people was fear. You might have two investors with the same amount of money: One was prepared to buy 250,000 shares of a stock they liked, while the other wasn’t. Why? Kiev believed that the reluctance was a form of anxiety—and that it could be overcome with proper treatment. Kiev would ask the traders to close their eyes and visualize themselves making trades and generating profits. “Surrendering to the moment” and “speaking the truth” were some of his favorite phrases. “Why weren’t you bigger in the trades that worked? What did you do right?” he’d ask. “Being preoccupied with not losing interferes with winning,” he would say. “Trading not to lose is not a good strategy. You need to trade to win.” Many of the traders hated the group therapy sessions. Some considered Kiev a fraud. “Ari was very aggressive,” said one. “He liked money.” Patricia, Cohen’s first wife, was suspicious of Kiev’s motives and believed that he was using his sessions with Cohen to find stock tips. From Kiev’s perspective, he found the perfect client in Cohen, a patient with unlimited resources who could pay enormous fees and whose reputation as one of the best traders on Wall Street could help Kiev realize his own goal of becoming a bestselling author. Being able to say that you were the
Sheelah Kolhatkar (Black Edge: Inside Information, Dirty Money, and the Quest to Bring Down the Most Wanted Man on Wall Street)
The Purveyor of Delusion confers upon his wife a certain expression or twist of Phiz I daresay as old as Holy Scripture,— a lengthy range of Sentiment, all comprest into a single melancholick swing of the eyes. From some personal stowage he produces another Flask, containing, not the Spruce Beer ubiquitous in these parts, but that favor’d stupefacient of the jump’d-up tradesman, French claret,— and without offering it to anyone else, including his Wife, begins to drink. “It goes back,” he might have begun, “to the second Day of Creation, when ‘G-d made the Firmament, and divided the Waters which were under the Firmament, from the Waters which were above the Firmament,’— thus the first Boundary Line. All else after that, in all History, is but Sub-Division.” “What Machine is it,” young Cherrycoke later bade himself goodnight, “that bears us along so relentlessly? We go rattling thro’ another Day,— another Year,— as thro’ an empty Town without a Name, in the Midnight . . . we have but Memories of some Pause at the Pleasure-Spas of our younger Day, the Maidens, the Cards, the Claret,— we seek to extend our stay, but now a silent Functionary in dark Livery indicates it is time to re-board the Coach, and resume the Journey. Long before the Destination, moreover, shall this Machine come abruptly to a Stop . . . gather’d dense with Fear, shall we open the Door to confer with the Driver, to discover that there is no Driver, . . . no Horses, . . . only the Machine, fading as we stand, and a Prairie of desperate Immensity. . . .
Thomas Pynchon (Mason & Dixon)
I have time for only one drink,” Jordan said, glancing at the ormolu clock on the opposite wall. “I’ve promised Alexandra to stand at her side at a ball tonight and beam approvingly at a friend of hers.” Whenever Jordan mentioned his wife’s name, Ian noted with amusement, the other man’s entire expression softened. “Care to join us?” Ian shook his head and accepted his drink from the footman. “It sounds boring as hell.” “I don’t think it’ll be boring, precisely. My wife has taken it upon herself to defy the entire ton and sponsor the girl back into the ranks. Based on some of the things Alexandra said in her note, that will be no mean feat.” “Why is that?” Ian inquired with more courtesy than interest. Jordan sighed and leaned his head back, weary from the hours he’d been working for the last several weeks and unexcited at the prospect of dancing attendance on a damsel in distress-one he’d never set eyes on. “The girl fell into the clutches of some man two years ago and an ugly scandal ensued.” Thinking of Elizabeth and himself, Ian said casually, “That’s not an uncommon occurrence, evidently.” “From what Alex wrote me, it seems this case is rather extreme.” “In what way?” “For one thing, there’s every chance the young woman will get the cut direct tonight from half the ton-and that’s the half that will be willing to acknowledge her. Alex has retaliated by calling in the heavy guns-my grandmother, to be exact, and Tony and myself, to a lesser degree. The object is to try to brave it out, but I don’t envy the girl. Unless I miss my guess, she’s going to be flayed alive by the wagging tongues tonight. Whatever the bastard did,” Jordan finished, downing his drink and starting to straighten in his chair, “it was damaging as hell. The girl-who’s purported to be incredibly beautiful, by the way-has been a social outcast for nearly two years.” Ian stiffened, his glass arrested partway to his mouth, his sharpened gaze on Jordan, who was already starting to rise. “Who’s the girl?” he demanded tautly. “Elizabeth Cameron.” “Oh, Christ!” Ian exploded, surging out of his chair and snatching up his evening jacket. “Where are they?” “At the Willington’s. Why?” “Because,” Ian bit out, impatiently shrugging into his jacket and tugging the frilled cuffs of his shirt into place, “I’m the bastard who did it.” An indescribable expression flashed across the Duke of Hawthorne’s face as he, too, pulled on his evening jacket. “You are the man Alexandra described in her note as an ‘unspeakable cad, vile libertine,’ and ‘despoiler of innocents’?” “I’m all that and more,” Ian replied grimly, stalking toward the door with Jordan Townsende beside him. “You go to the Willingtons’ as quickly as you can,” he instructed. “I’ll be close behind you, but I’ve a stop to make first. And don’t, for God’s sake, tell Elizabeth I’m on my way.” Ian flung himself into his coach, snapped orders to his driver, and leaned back, counting minutes, telling himself it couldn’t possibly be going as badly for her as he feared it would. And never once did he stop to think that Jordan Townsende had no idea what motives could possibly prompt Elizabeth Cameron’s “despoiler” to be bent on meeting her at the Willington’s ball.
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
Gareth?" "What is it, dearest?" She took a deep breath and reached up to touch his cheek. "I ... love you." "Oh, Juliet ..."  He actually blushed, so pleased was he by her long-overdue admission. "You couldn't have chosen a nicer time to tell me." "I should have told you ages ago, when I first knew. But I couldn't admit it then, not even to myself." "And when did you first know?" "When you took that bullet meant for the little boy. When you nearly died trying to save him — and all of us on that coach. I think I started to love you then. I think I've loved you ever since. I just ... haven't told you." "But — what about Charles?" She gave him a patient little smile. "I'll be honest, Gareth. Once, I was like everyone else in that I was always comparing the two of you. But as I've grown to know you, those comparisons have happened less and less, and when they do occur ... well, you always come out on top."  She leaned up to kiss the smile just breaking out on his face. "Lately, I've come to realize that Charles and I would never have been this happy together. We were too much alike. You, on the other hand ... well, I've never had as much fun with anyone as I have with you." "Oh, Juliet. I don't know what to say."  He was grinning fiercely. "But I will tell you this. I've always been sure." "Of what?" "That I love you." "Are you, now?" she asked, trying to muster a grin even as a tear leaked from one eye. She knuckled it away. Sniffled. Heavens, she was beginning to bawl like a baby. "Yes. And you know something else, my dear, darling little wife? I'm going to take you upstairs and prove it." Laughing,
Danelle Harmon (The Wild One (The de Montforte Brothers, #1))
Ryan was not only gregarious but also a happily married inamorato! (Around the facility, when the other coaches teased him about this episode, Ryan would retort affably, “I’m the only guy in history who gets in a sex scandal with his wife!”)
Nicholas Dawidoff (Collision Low Crossers: A Year Inside the Turbulent World of NFL Football)
One such father, decades ago now, John Quinn, a student at Humboldt State College in Arcata, California, made newspaper headlines when he chained himself to his laboring wife in order to foil the hospital ban on his presence. His explanation is a classical example of the increased awareness of the younger generation: "I love my wife. I feel it's my moral right as a husband and father to be there.
Robert A. Bradley (Husband-Coached Childbirth: The Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth)
You have a good time with Mel today?” “Yes. Was Christopher a lot of trouble?” He shook his head with a chuckle. “Nah, he’s a kick. He wants to know everything. Every detail. ‘Why is it a quarter teaspoon of that?’ ‘What does the Crisco on the tray do?’ And man, yeast blows him away. I think he has a little scientist in him.” Paige thought, he couldn’t ask his father questions. Wes didn’t have the patience to answer them. “John, do you have family?” “Not anymore. I was an only child. And my folks were older, anyway—they didn’t think they were going to have kids. Then I surprised ’em. Boy, did I surprise ’em. My dad died when I was about six—a construction accident. And then my mom when I was seventeen, right before my senior year.” “I’m so sorry.” “Yeah, thanks. It’s okay. I’ve had a good life.” “What did you do when you lost your mother? Go live with aunts or something?” “No aunts,” he said, shaking his head. “My football coach took me in. It was good—he had a nice wife, good bunch of little kids. Might as well have lived with him. He acted like he owned me during football, anyway,” he said with a laugh. “Nah, kidding aside, that was a good thing he did. Good guy. We used to write—now we email.” “What happened to your mom?” “Heart attack.
Robyn Carr (Shelter Mountain (Virgin River, #2))
One exhibition to which Tom Norman became particularly attached was his family of midgets. It consisted of two midgets, billed as man and wife and always brought into town in a specially constructed miniature coach drawn by ponies. In each town on the tour he made a point of closing the show down for a few days so as to allow the lady midget to ‘give birth to her baby’. A new-born infant would then be hired to stand in for the hypothetical offspring, and even larger queues always gathered after such a ‘happy event’ to see the new arrival. The only problem was the difficulty he had in restraining the ‘mother’ from swearing volubly, smoking a pipe and drinking gin in front of the customers. The exhibition finally came to grief when the ‘mother’ ran away one night, objecting to being displayed as a woman any longer, both midgets being men.
Peter Ford (The True History of the Elephant Man: The Definitive Account of the Tragic and Extraordinary Life of Joseph Carey Merrick)
Believe me, Dirk; I've been in this game a long time and I know what I'm talking about. I've seen it all; wife swapping during a coach tour of Norfolk churches, orgies at a pensioners' whist drive in Somerset; a mystery weekend where the real mystery turned out to be, what was Mr Preston doing hanging upside down in the wardrobe with an apple in his mouth.
Stuart Bone, Driven to Distraction
Lazer was coaching her. Expertly. Patiently. Intimately. And sitting was the hell too close to my wife. As they played, they laughed and joked like soul mates. Moving together and interacting with their characters. Easy in each other's company. And damn it, they looked like they were made for each other. I felt like the one intruding on honeymooon.
Gina Robinson (The Virgin Billionaire (Switched at Marriage #2; Jet City World #2))
The Los Angeles coach and his assistants were befuddled by the Buss family’s willingness to kneel before a child. Around the same time as he was being accused of sexual assault, Bryant started behaving in curious ways. There were the new tattoos scrolling down his right arm—a crown, his wife Vanessa’s name, a halo and angel wings above Psalm XXVII.
Jeff Pearlman (Three-Ring Circus: Kobe, Shaq, Phil, and the Crazy Years of the Lakers Dynasty)
John and Diane Worcester are always on the run. In their amazing pursuit of God’s call, they have planted churches in cities like Moscow, Toronto, and Fort Worth. John tells part of their story: God has called my wife, Diane, and me to be sequential church planters. We move to one city after another to plant churches. Our goal is to make disciples of unsaved people and gather them in churches, where they can mature and be mobilized to make more disciples. By God’s grace, we have planted eight churches and over a dozen other expressions of the church, such as evangelistic campus ministries, singles ministries, etc. We typically apprentice future church planters as we plant, and once the church starts, we turn the church over to a long-term pastor. As planters like John and Diane Worcester run after what God has called them to do, their coaches run alongside them. God has used them to make an incredible gospel impact for thousands of people. No doubt well-intended advisors suggested they stop moving so often, but God had a unique plan. Paul reminds Thessalonian believers to give honor, respect, and love to those who lead: Dear brothers and sisters, honor those who are your leaders in the Lord’s work. They work hard among you and give you spiritual guidance. Show them great respect and wholehearted love because of their work. And live peacefully with each other. (1 Thess. 5:12–13 nlt)
Dino Senesi (Sending Well)
Here are the twin premises of the inner-child recovery movement: • Bad events in childhood exert major influence on adulthood. • Coming to grips with those events undoes their influence. These premises are enshrined in film and theater. The biggest psychological hit of 1991 was the film version of Pat Conroy's lyrical novel The Prince of Tides, in which Tom Wingo (Nick Nolte), an alcoholic football coach, has been fired from his job, and is cold to his wife and little girls. He and his sister were raped twenty-five years before as kids. He tearfully confesses this to Dr. Susan Lowenstein (Barbra Streisand), a New York psychoanalyst, and thereby recovers his ability to feel, to coach, and to control his drinking. His sister, presumably, would also recover from her suicidal schizophrenia if she could only relive the rape. The audience is in tears. The audience seems to have no doubt about the premises. But I do.
Martin E.P. Seligman (What You Can Change and What You Can't: The Complete Guide to Successful Self-Improvement)
one mission. Feed Zlatan, let him sleep, keep him happy’. That guy says whatever he wants. I like him.” On his bromance with Mourinho “The Barca players were like schoolboys, following the coach blindly. Whereas I was used to asking, ‘Why should we?’” The forward explains what it was like to play at Barcelona “I can’t help but laugh at how perfect I am.” Zlatan is as modest as ever Reporter: “You’ve got some scars on your face, Zlatan. What has happened?” Zlatan: “Well... I don’t know... You’ll have to ask your wife about that.” Agent Anders Carlsson: “Southampton...Southampton is interested.” Zlatan: “What the f*ck! Southampton! Is that my level? Southampton!” Unsettled at Ajax, Zlatan asks his agent if any clubs offered him a way out “You can’t be a clown all the time.” Zlatan on growing up after five months at Ajax “Hi @Twitter. For tomorrow Zlatan needs more than 140 characters. Please change rules for Zlatan.” He tweeted this ahead of a Q&A on social media. The following are some of his best replies to fan questions... “There are 2 things Zlatan cannot do @at_sunshine. One is be predictable. The other is a step-under. But Zlatan is practising. #DareToZlatan.
Gordon Law (Zlatan Style: The funniest Zlatan Ibrahimovic quotes!)
Her daughter Nicole had often joked with her, “If Daddy dies, and you would be nothing.” But during the past three years, sitting in the stands week after week had become a nightmare for her as she listened to the fans tear apart her husband and the teenagers who played for him with unrelenting venom, not caring one whit that she, the wife of the coach, was sitting within easy earshot. Sometimes she couldn’t stand it and had to move to one of the portals to get away from it all. “I don’t think they realize these are sixteen, seventeen, eighteen-year-old kids,” she once said. “I don’t think they realize these are coaches. They are men, they are not gods. They don’t realize it’s a game and they look at them like they’re professional football players. They are kids, high school kids, the sons of somebody, and they expect them to be perfect.” Yes, they did, and they had too much invested in it emotionally to ever change. Permian football had become too much a part of the town and too much a part of their own lives, as intrinsic and sacred a value as religion, as politics, as making money, as raising children. That was the nature of sports in a town like this. Football stood at the very core of what the town was about, not on the outskirts, not on the periphery. It had nothing to do with entertainment and everything to do with how people felt about themselves.
H.G. Bissinger (Friday Night Lights: A Town, a Team, and a Dream)
Married people use a successful marriage as an advert for marriage, and a failed marriage as an advert for a good husband or wife.
Mokokoma Mokhonoana
The uncomfortable assumption had begun to dawn on me that maybe this was all some sex-related thing I was better off not knowing. I looked at the side of his face: petulant, irritable, glasses low on the tip of his sharp little nose and the beginnings of jowls at his jawline. Might Henry have made a pass at him in Rome? Incredible, but a possible hypothesis. If he had, certainly, all hell would have broken loose. I could not think of much else that would involve this much whispering and secrecy, or that would have had so strong an effect on Bunny. He was the only one of us who had a girlfriend and I was pretty sure he slept with her, but at the same time he was incredibly prudish — touchy, easily offended, at root hypocritical. Besides, there was something unquestionably odd about the way Henry was constantly shelling out money to him: paying his tabs, footing his bills, doling out cash like a husband to a spendthrift wife. Perhaps Bunny had allowed his greed to get the better of him, and was angry to discover that Henry's largesse had strings attached. But did it? There were certainly strings somewhere, though — easy as it seemed on the face of it — I wasn't sure that this was where those particular strings led. There was of course that thing with Julian in the hallway; still, that had been very different. I had lived with Henry for a month, and there hadn't been the faintest hint of that sort of tension, which I, being rather more disinclined that way than not, am quick to pick up on. I had caught a strong breath of it from Francis, a whiff of at times from Julian; and even Charles, who I knew was interested in women, had a sort of naive, prepubescent shyness of them that a man like my father would have interpreted alarmingly — but with Henry, zero. Geiger counters dead. If anything, it was Camilla he seemed fondest of, Camilla he bent over attentively when she spoke, Camilla who was most often the recipient of his infrequent smiles. And even if there was a side of him which I was unaware (which was possible) was it possible that he was attracted to Bunny? The answer to this seemed, almost unquestionable, No. Not only did he behave as if he wasn't attracted to Bunny, he acted as if he were hardly able to stand him. And it seemed that he, disgusted by Bunny in what appeared to be virtually all respects, would be far more disgusted in that particular one than even I would be. It was possible for me to recognize, in a general sort of way, that Bunny was handsome, but if I brought the lens any closer and tried to focus on him in a sexual light, all I got was a repugnant miasma of sour-smelling shirts and muscles gone to fat and dirty socks. Girls didn't seem to mind that sort of thing, but to me he was about as erotic as an old football coach.
Anonymous
Shauna sighed at me, condescendingly. "Believe me, Dirk; I've been in this game a long time and I know what I'm talking about. I've seen it all; wife swapping during a coach tour of Norfolk churches, orgies at a pensioners' whist drive in Somerset; a mystery weekend where the real mystery turned out to be, what was Mr Preston doing hanging upside down in the wardrobe with an apple in his mouth?
Stuart Bone, Driven to Distraction
Three days before Christmas, Tony Dungy’s phone rang in the middle of the night. His wife answered and handed him the receiver, thinking it was one of his players. There was a nurse on the line. Dungy’s son Jamie had been brought into the hospital earlier in the evening, she said, with compression injuries on his throat. His girlfriend had found him hanging in his apartment, a belt around his neck. Paramedics had rushed him to the hospital, but efforts at revival were unsuccessful.3.34 He was gone. A chaplain flew to spend Christmas with the family. “Life will never be the same again,” the chaplain told them, “but you won’t always feel like you do right now.” A few days after the funeral, Dungy returned to the sidelines. He needed something to distract himself, and his wife and team encouraged him to go back to work. “I was overwhelmed by their love and support,” he later wrote. “As a group, we had always leaned on each other in difficult times; I needed them now more than ever.” The team lost their first play-off game, concluding their season. But in the aftermath of watching Dungy during this tragedy, “something changed,” one of his players from that period told me. “We had seen Coach through this terrible thing and all of us wanted to help him somehow.” It is simplistic, even cavalier, to suggest that a young man’s death can have an impact on football games. Dungy has always said that nothing is more important to him than his family. But in the wake of Jamie’s passing, as the Colts started preparing for the next season, something shifted, his players say. The team gave in to Dungy’s vision of how football should be played in a way they hadn’t before. They started to believe.
Charles Duhigg (The Power Of Habit: Why We Do What We Do In Life And Business)
Sometimes, You Just Need a Vibrator Coach Sommer introduced me to a Russian medical massage specialist who recommended I use the plug-in (not cordless) model of the Hitachi Magic Wand on its high setting. I’ve never experienced such heights of ecstasy. Thanks, Vladmir! Just kidding. In this case, it’s for relaxing hypertonic muscles (i.e., muscles that are tense even though they shouldn’t be). Just place the wand on your muscle belly (not insertion points) for 20 to 30 seconds, which is often all it takes at the proper hertz. Tension headaches or a stiff neck? It’s great for relaxing the occipitals at the base of the skull. Warning: Having Hitachi Magic Wands lying out around your house can go terribly wrong—or terribly right. Good luck explaining your “hypertonic muscles.” As one friend said to me, “I think my wife has that same problem. . . .”   Gymnast Strong Unusual and Effective Bodyweight Exercises In less than eight weeks of following Coach Sommer’s protocols, I saw unbelievable improvement in areas I’d largely given up on. Try a few of my favorite exercises, and you’ll quickly realize that gymnasts use muscles you didn’t even know you had. QL Walk—An Unusual Warmup
Timothy Ferriss (Tools of Titans: The Tactics, Routines, and Habits of Billionaires, Icons, and World-Class Performers)
For God’s sake, you are as bad as Louisa.” Joseph took his gaze from Harrison’s fancy town coach—and what was a mere portraitist doing with such a rig?—and surveyed Moreland’s features. “I beg your pardon?” “Your affianced wife, Louisa. She’s incorrigible. The girl has loving family on every hand, every hand, and yet she must make her own way. Has always had to forge her own path and I suspect she’s met her match in you, so to speak.” The duke was trying to communicate something, while Joseph was trying to make out the crest on Harrison’s coach. “Your presence here is still not well advised, Your Grace. Hanging felonies will likely be committed.” Moreland thwacked a riding crop against gleaming field boots. “Listen to me, young man: You have no father, no brothers, no uncles, not even a damned third cousin to see you through this. If a prospective papa-by-marriage is all you’ve got, then by God, that’s what you’ll take.” There was something heartening and familiar in the way Moreland delivered a scold. Warmth, unexpected and welcome, bloomed in Joseph’s chest. “Your Grace, may I say first, thank you, and second, you are as bad as Louisa yourself.” “Where do you think she came by it? One wonders what you’ll have to say to Arthur if he ever bestirs his bones to leave his carriage.” The
Grace Burrowes (Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (The Duke's Daughters, #3; Windham, #6))
Hello, ladies, I’m your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?” This fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes. “Mama and Papa didn’t say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle. The biggest uncle—they were all as tall as Papa. “Well, that’s because we’re a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I’m your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.” “I was not naughty.” The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles. “There’s your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I’m thinking it’s a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.” Uncle Gayle—it didn’t seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur’s puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?” “To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense. “Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked. Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French. Uncle Devlin’s brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa’s. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I’ve been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.” “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.” “Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn’t he?” “Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy. “You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one’s nursery. “We’ll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day. “Which leaves me to be Blucher’s mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.” “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn’t smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter’s come out, St. Just.” Uncle Gayle wasn’t frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We’re going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.” Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa’s new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama. What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French. ***
Grace Burrowes (Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (The Duke's Daughters, #3; Windham, #6))
In C. S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters, senior demon Screwtape coaches a junior devil on how to infect a man’s relationship with others: “Keep his mind off the most elementary of duties by directing it to the most advanced and spiritual ones. Aggravate that most useful of human characteristics, the horror and neglect of the obvious.”2 He continues, “I have had patients of my own so well in hand that they could be turned at a moment’s notice from impassioned prayer for a wife’s or son’s ‘soul’ to beating or insulting the real wife or son without a qualm.
Tish Harrison Warren (Liturgy of the Ordinary: Sacred Practices in Everyday Life)
Marrying one woman doesn’t mean spending your life with one woman, because the funny girl you fall in love with on a first date at twenty-eight eventually becomes the fascinating creature you propose to at thirty, then evolves into the stunning bride you wait for at the end of an aisle at thirty-two, and finally grows into the astounding mother to your children at thirty-four. By forty, she has blossomed into the businesswoman, the force to be reckoned with. By the time you’re fifty or sixty or seventy or a hundred, she’s been everything — your wife, your lover, your friend, your companion, your sous-chef, your travel partner, your life coach, your confidant, your cheerleader, your critic, your most stalwart advisor. She grows with you. She changes with you. She is always stable, but never stagnant. She is not one woman. She is a thousand versions of herself, a multitude of layers, an infinite ocean whose depths you plumb over a lifetime, whose many treasures and intricacies, quirks and idiosyncrasies you need an entire marriage to explore.” His voice softens. “A man should be so lucky to spend his life stuck with one woman such as that.
Julie Johnson
Wyatt’s lips flatten into a serious line. His voice goes low, laced with passion. “Marrying one woman doesn’t mean spending your life with one woman, because the funny girl you fall in love with on a first date at twenty-eight eventually becomes the fascinating creature you propose to at thirty, then evolves into the stunning bride you wait for at the end of an aisle at thirty-two, and finally grows into the astounding mother to your children at thirty-four. By forty, she has blossomed into the businesswoman, the force to be reckoned with. By the time you’re fifty or sixty or seventy or a hundred, she’s been everything — your wife, your lover, your friend, your companion, your sous-chef, your travel partner, your life coach, your confidant, your cheerleader, your critic, your most stalwart advisor. She grows with you. She changes with you. She is always stable, but never stagnant. She is not one woman. She is a thousand versions of herself, a multitude of layers, an infinite ocean whose depths you plumb over a lifetime, whose many treasures and intricacies, quirks and idiosyncrasies you need an entire marriage to explore.” His voice softens. “A man should be so lucky to spend his life stuck with one woman such as that.” -Julie Johnson, "The Monday Girl
Julie Johnson
What John Ayers was doing seemed routine. But to the few who knew, and watched, it was a thing of beauty. The ball is snapped and John Ayers sees Taylor coming, and slides quickly back one step and to his left. And as he slides, he steps to meet his future. He’s stepping into 1985, when the turf will be fast and he won’t be able to deal with Lawrence Taylor…. Another quick step, back and left, and it’s 1986, and he’s injured and on the sidelines when the Giants send Joe Montana to the hospital and the 49ers home on the way to their own Super Bowl victory…. A third quick step and he crouches like one power forward denying another access to the hoop. But now it’s 1987 and Coach Bill Walsh is advising John Ayers to retire. Ayers ignores the advice and then learns that Walsh won’t invite him back to training camp…. He takes his final quick step back and left and times his blow, to stop dead in his tracks the most terrifying force ever launched at an NFL quarterback. “I don’t think I’ve ever played against a football player who had more drive and intensity to get to the quarterback,” John Ayers will say, after it’s all over, and he’s been given the game ball by his teammates. “It was almost like he was possessed.”…But now it’s 1995, and John Ayers has just died of cancer, at forty-two, and left behind a wife and two children. Joe Montana charters a plane to fly a dozen teammates to Amarillo, Texas, to serve as pall-bearers. At the funeral of John Ayers the letter of tribute from Bill Walsh is read aloud.
Michael Lewis (The Blind Side: Evolution of a Game)
I eat at a restaurant across the highway from the hotel where I’m staying. My steak is delicious—as it should be here. The decor in the restaurant is all red—chairs, tables, and trim—in honor of the local high school football team, the Mustangs. There is a very large painting of the football coach covering the wall behind me. I watch a man across from me shoot up his insulin at his table after he and his wife finish their meal. He does it deftly, as casually as one would look at one’s watch. It’s beautiful.
David Byrne (Bicycle Diaries)
Quincy, I’m, I’m . . . not prepared to do an audition,” I stammered. “I didn’t know, when you called, you know, what we were doing and all that.” “It’s only a couple of scenes. I got some people out there who will read with you. You just gotta be you and have fun.” “Quincy, I can not do an audition in the middle of a party. I need to prepare, I just need some time, to work on it.” “OK, I hear that—how much time you need?” Quincy asked. “I mean, just, uh, give me a week, and I’ll find an acting coach, and I can study it, so I can do it, not just read it.” Quincy considered my words. “OK, so you need a week?” “Yes, a week, a week is perfect!” “OK, so you know what’s gonna happen in a week?” Quincy asked. But before I could answer, he said, “Brandon Tartikoff is going to have an emergency on one of his shows and he’s gonna have to fly to Kansas to fire somebody. Then he’s gonna have to reschedule for the following week.” “Oh, cool, cool! Two weeks would be even better,” I said, missing the subtleties of Quincy’s point. “Right, two weeks. Then Warren Littlefield is gonna have something at his kids’ elementary school that he forgot was on the schedule he can’t get out of because his wife’s going to tear him a new one if he doesn’t show up. And he’s gonna have to reschedule for two weeks after that.
Will Smith (Will)
one, but the name of its aboriginal island still apparently brings a sense of true north to all these conductors, brakemen, lawyers, salesmen, and football coaches. Not long ago, it occurred to me that although all my clansmen in America had talked for so long about Colonsay, as far as I knew none of them had ever been there. For that matter, all that I knew about it was that it was one of the Hebrides, in the islands of Argyll. As soon as I could, I took my wife and our four young daughters and went to live for a while on Colonsay.
John McPhee (The Crofter and the Laird)
Jessica Kim was one of them. A damn shame, she was one of those Asian worker-bee types. Always here past midnight. I heard she worked on Christmas. A real numbers whiz." "True, but she wasn't the best fit for client services. At her level, she needed to be a thinker, not a doer. I know this sounds crass, but her clothes never fit. They were a little too baggy for may taste." "Maybe you should have paid her more so she could hire a tailor." Laughter. "Wasn't she already being overpaid anyway, especially for a female associate?" My stomach lurched. I'd heard enough. My sadness vortexed into pure rage as I stomped over to them. "I gave blood, sweat, and tears for this company." I growled and pointed at Robert, my former group director. "You begged me to cover for you if your wife called when you were wining and dining that female client last year." Robert's face reddened. "But you didn't. I'm going through a divorce now." I went down the line to the next asshole. "Shaun, you tried to expense your escapade at a strip club by saying it was my birthday dinner and HR thought I was in on the scam. And Dan, you transposed all those numbers on the deal sheet and I caught them just before they were sent out, remember? You could have been fired for that, especially for showing up to work high. I went above and beyond for you. I saved your ass." Their jaws dropped. No, they weren't going to schmooze their way out of this one. "I know what you're thinking. How dare she say these things to us? She's just bitter because she was let go. Well, it's partly true. I'm bitter because I've wasted seven years of my life at this company that turned around and stabbed me in the back. If I wasn't leadership material, why didn't a female mentor coach me? Oh right, because there aren't any female execs here. But thank you, sincerely, for the wake-up-call. Now I can take my bonuses and severance and do something better with my time rather than covering for you and making you all richer.
Suzanne Park (So We Meet Again)
Joan Joyce is the real deal, a fierce competitor and one of the greatest athletes and coaches in sports history. Tony Renzoni’s moving tribute to Joan shows us why she is a champion in sports and in life. —Billie Jean King, sports icon and equality pioneer The story is all true. Joan Joyce was a tremendous pitcher, as talented as anyone who ever played. [responding to a newspaper account of his early 1960s match-ups against Joan Joyce] —Ted Williams, Hall of Famer and Boston Red Sox great, December 30, 1999 Joan Joyce is truly the greatest female athlete in sports history. And a great coach as well. Tony Renzoni’s well-researched book is a touching tribute to this phenomenal athlete. I highly recommend this book! —Bobby Valentine, former MLB player and manager Quotes for Historic Connecticut Music Venues: From the Coliseum to the Shaboo: I would like to thank Tony Renzoni for giving me the opportunity to write the foreword to his wonderful book. I highly recommend Connecticut Music Venues: From the Coliseum to Shaboo to music lovers everywhere! —Felix Cavaliere, Legendary Hall of Famer (Young Rascals/Rascals, Solo) As the promoter of the concerts in many of the music venues in this book, I hope you enjoy living the special memories this book will give you. —Jim Koplik, Live Nation president, Connecticut and Upstate New York Tony Renzoni has captured the soul and spirit of decades of the Connecticut live music scene, from the wild and wooly perspective of the music venues that housed it. A great read! —Christine Ohlman, the “Beehive Queen,” recording artist/songwriter Tony Renzoni has written a very thoughtful and well-researched tribute to the artists of Connecticut, and we are proud to have Gene included among them. —Lynne Pitney, wife of Gene Pitney Our Alice Cooper band recorded the Billion Dollars Babies album in a mansion in Greenwich. Over the years, there have been many great musicians from Connecticut, and the local scene is rich with good music. Tony Renzoni’s book captures all of that and more. Sit back and enjoy the ride. —Dennis Dunaway, hall of famer and co-founder of the Alice Cooper band. Rock ’n’ Roll music fans from coast to coast will connect to events in this book. Strongly recommended! —Judith Fisher Freed, estate of Alan Freed
Tony Renzoni
Amundson joined a boxing gym and a Brazilian jujitsu school, two more sources of CrossFit recruits. His wife found a local ranch where they could buy horse stall mats. Glassman had discovered horse mats back in Santa Cruz as a less expensive alternative to roll-out rubber matting. “There’s something about a cement floor covered wall-to-wall in black horse mats that just fires me up,” Amundson wrote in a CrossFit Journal chronicle of his mom-and-pop garage gym.2 On the walls, they hung framed T-shirts from their favorite CrossFit affiliates, photos from their days at CrossFit HQ, a whiteboard, and a six- by ten-foot American flag. For a husband and wife, coaches at heart, it was a perfect pint-size box.
J.C. Herz (Learning to Breathe Fire: The Rise of CrossFit and the Primal Future of Fitness)
She’s known as the Queen B. And not bee like the insect, or Jay-Z’s wife. The letter B, as in beyotch. She first made her money with a self-help book she wrote called Bitches Do Better, which became a number one New York Times bestseller when she was only twenty-one. Then she wrote half a dozen more Bitch books, started doing speaking engagements, and became a life coach for some über-swank clients. Teaching them her bitchy secrets for success, apparently.
J.T. Geissinger (Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games, #1))
Coming,” he cried when the rapping began again, on the heels of a distant roll of thunder, and in the instant before he reached for the doorknob, he felt with utter certainty, as if all of this were indeed merely something revisited, rehearsed, recalled, that he would not return—not to the living room behind him or the narrow stairs or the small rooms where his wife and his children slept. This was the culmination, then, this odd darkness, this familiar dream, of the day that had begun with the tugging of the wind at his eaves; this was the simple and terrible meaning, after all, of the pain in his arm, the weight on his heart. Here now and at last, and too soon—as it had come to his brother’s heart too soon—the utter darkness, the black street, wind rain and sea and some glimpse, in his final fall, of the damp room (odor of salt, odor of peat) where in another darkness he had been conceived. An instant so close—in its familiarity, in its blackness, in the cry of the wind—to everything he had been told as a child would attend his last moment (he would hear the banshee, he would open the door, he would see the black coach, wet with rain), that he felt both amused and terrified.
Alice McDermott (After This)
The Patriots’ quarterback, Tom Brady, had scored touchdowns in far less time. Sure enough, within seconds of the start of play, Brady moved his team halfway down the field. With seventeen seconds remaining, the Patriots were within striking distance, poised for a final big play that would hand Dungy another defeat and crush, yet again, his team’s Super Bowl dreams. As the Patriots approached the line of scrimmage, the Colts’ defense went into their stances. Marlin Jackson, a Colts cornerback, stood ten yards back from the line. He looked at his cues: the width of the gaps between the Patriot linemen and the depth of the running back’s stance. Both told him this was going to be a passing play. Tom Brady, the Patriots’ quarterback, took the snap and dropped back to pass. Jackson was already moving. Brady cocked his arm and heaved the ball. His intended target was a Patriot receiver twenty-two yards away, wide open, near the middle of the field. If the receiver caught the ball, it was likely he could make it close to the end zone or score a touchdown. The football flew through the air. Jackson, the Colts cornerback, was already running at an angle, following his habits. He rushed past the receiver’s right shoulder, cutting in front of him just as the ball arrived. Jackson plucked the ball out of the air for an interception, ran a few more steps and then slid to the ground, hugging the ball to his chest. The whole play had taken less than five seconds. The game was over. Dungy and the Colts had won. Two weeks later, they won the Super Bowl. There are dozens of reasons that might explain why the Colts finally became champions that year. Maybe they got lucky. Maybe it was just their time. But Dungy’s players say it’s because they believed, and because that belief made everything they had learned—all the routines they had practiced until they became automatic—stick, even at the most stressful moments. “We’re proud to have won this championship for our leader, Coach Dungy,” Peyton Manning told the crowd afterward, cradling the Lombardi Trophy. Dungy turned to his wife. “We did it,” he said.
Charles Duhigg (The Power Of Habit: Why We Do What We Do In Life And Business)
When John’s wife died in 1792, he had entrusted his eleven children to his oldest daughter, seventeen-year-old Kitty, unconcerned that they wore bright clothes, were rude to neighbours or joined hands across the road to hold up the Norwich coach. While the boys went away to school the girls studied at home at Earlham Hall, reading Rousseau, Voltaire and Paine, and sketching with the Norwich artist John Crome. Clever and forceful, they drank in the radical ideas of the Norwich Unitarian James Alderson and his daughter Amelia, who was a friend of Thomas Holcroft, John Horne Tooke and the Godwin circle, and would marry the painter John Opie in 1798. The Gurneys were well-known figures, not least because of their support for reform. But their political opinions made no difference to their careful, clever banking. One of the Gurneys’ regular East Anglian clients was James Oakes of Bury St Edmunds.
Jenny Uglow (In These Times: Living in Britain Through Napoleon's Wars, 1793-1815)
Since my wife ran off with a lesbian basketball coach, in October of 2007, I had to raise my three youngest children as a cowboy single dad. This has made it impossible for me to travel and run my hotel jobs. I hired Jim Rossi to run my out of town work for me and Jim had done a great job for the first year. As time had progressed, Jims drinking and greed seemed to be taking a toll on what was in October 2007, the largest hotel remodeling business in the Midwest. If I’m able to get the Palace up and running, I can shut down the hotel road work and personally run The Palace. Making the Grand Palace as successful as my hotel business was when I ran all the hotel renovations road work myself.
Paul M. Dunn (The Grand Palace Battleground Branson Missouri)
You know what they say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. What you deemed useless and blemished, I regard as valuable and a fucking marvel. But I should actually thank you, Coach, because the trash you left on the sidewalk is my perfect treasure. I love every beautiful flaw, every imperfection on that
Robbi Renee (Somebody's Wife)
My chickens are very sensitive creatures,” said Sensei Coach. “When I was married, I always made sure the chickens slept in the same room as my wife and me, so they wouldn’t feel lonely.” “And how did that work out for your marriage?” Carl asked. Sensei Coach said nothing.
Dave Villager (Dave the Villager 41: An Unofficial Minecraft Book (The Legend of Dave the Villager))