Duck And Weave Quotes

The past weaves all around this; we still duck in and out of its lost but shimmering kingdoms.

When the first stone is cast, duck and weave… duck and weave.” -Something witty I'd once said.

The boxers were banging away at each other. Go on, go on, go on, keep punching, Antonio, keep punching. I'm blasting away at the Cuban guy. He can't hurt me. I'm made of iron. His fists feel like friendly pats when he manages to land a punch, which he doesn't do too often, 'cause I'm fast on my feet, and I duck and weave. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. But I'm punching the hell out of him. I'm creaming the bastard, creaming the Cuban, creaming my old man... What?!... Creaming my boss,I mean. That son-of-a-bitch Mr. Hanson. For an instant he saw Janey at the receiving end of his fists. Again. He pushed the image from his mind. It was Mr. Hanson. It was the Cuban champion. And the crowd was cheering. They were on their feet and screaming. They love me. Yes, they love me. Yes they do. They really do.

Little girl, who gave you permission to--Oh!” She bit off her words the moment that she noticed how well I was dressed, to say nothing of the two guards attending me. Her expression transformed from sour to sweet with stunning speed. “Ah, noble lady, I see that you have a keen eye for quality,” she cried. “You won’t find better cloth anywhere in Delphi--warm in winter, light in summer, tightly woven, and proof against wind and rain. And just look at those colors!” I did. They were all drab grays and browns. I held the first cloth up to the sunlight. If that was what she called a tight weave, so was a fishing net. “I want a cloak,” I told her, tossing the cloth aside. “Something long and heavy. It’s for him.” I nodded at Milo. “Of course, just as you wish, I have exactly what you want, wait right here,” she chattered. “I’ll bring out the best I have, something worthy of the noble lord.” She raised her hands to Milo in a gesture of reverence before ducking back into her house. “‘The noble lord’?” the tall guard repeated, incredulous. He and his companion snickered. Milo looked miserable. “Ignore them,” I told him, speaking low. “I promise you, before today is over, you’ll be the one laughing at them.

Rider cursed, ducked another blow, threw one of his own, and then bent down, hoisting the scrappy little female, none too gently, over his shoulder. "This is no place for you, girl, even if this whole mess is your fault." "My fault!" screamed Willie, dangling upside down. "You're the one who had to go and open his big mouth!" She beat on his back as he dodged brawlers, and headed for safe ground. "Dammit, put me down, you overgrown ox. You're gonna make me miss the fight!" As she screeched and kicked in a most unladylike manner,her small feet barely missed his vunerable groin. Raising his hand to smack her bottom, Rider found it suddenly immobilized by a fierce grip. "Take your hands off my sister!" The lieutenant's head swiveled toward the owner of the surly voice, and met with a hard fist. He stumbled and bumped into another brawling twosome, slacking his grip on Willie's legs. Seizing the advantage,she aimed a well-placed kick,and this time connected with her intended target. Rider grabbed his crotch and lurched forward in pain, dropping the little hellion on top of her brother. Like cats, the girl and her sibling were on their feet,weaving a zigzag escape through the mayhem. Rider quickly regained his balance and swore, "Damn,I should have known the little rebel had a brother." Still cupping his privates and cursing the air blue, he watched brother and sister disappear. "Someday, freckle face, someday.

He ducked and weaved under low branches. More screams and loud swearing reverberated around him, propelling him forward even faster. Now within visual range, fear struck his heart.

Soon there were more sharks weaving just under the surface, fins ducking in and out of the water. Though considerably smaller than the grayken, these stark, graceful ghosts of the sea left a deadly aura in their wake.

Mi was the typical Chinese entrepreneur, dodging, botching, ducking, and weaving, muddling his way round rules and obstacles with resolute cheerfulness.

Sleeping With the Net-Maker " She speaks to me when she's asleep. Her lips move but do not mean anything against the dark, each word air on my fingertips, each breath a twitch in her chest. At night I am another boundary containing her in her sleep like the blue linen ducks flying beneath her spreading hair, the sheets twisting between her glowing legs, the wooden frame holding her above the cold wooden floor. I watch her when she cannot know. Tonight I watch her hands weave a winding net over us. They float above the lines of her stomach tying each knot and squaring it off until the room is filled with twine. Soon she'll be the fisherman seining air for loaves of fish. She casts her net with arms spread out, feet together, hair swirling. Outside the water cracks against the glass to catch her throw. It gives up its form to take her net and washes over into the room teeming with fish and bread, thick with what she wants. I watch her cast for hours and learn to live beneath her grey water. She spills redfish at my feet but I tell her I'm not hungry. Her lips still move for me as she pulls the net toward us. I lie down among her piles of bread.

He was enormous. I got into my fighting crouch and delivered about half a dozen blows. He went down. The round wasn’t nearly over! The referee had begun the count when the Boston Bearcat raised his hand and interrupted him by saying, “The Bearcat is through.” I couldn’t believe it. The fight with the Bearcat really spurred me on. Now I fought more and more and trained harder than ever, running six or seven miles every morning before sunrise to strengthen my legs and my stamina. I adopted different methods to suit my size and talents. If a man fought down low, then I’d have to get down low too. If he was a puncher, I couldn’t box him; I had to fight him. Above all, I really got to know myself, to know my ability to take a blow and to know the extent of my endurance under different conditions. Missing a target only weakened my strength; it was better to duck, feint and weave. I practised ducking my head from side to side when charging in, making me harder to hit. When I was in the ring, if it was going well, very little went on in my head. I didn’t have time to think because I had to concentrate on what I was doing. If I got hurt and pain seared through my body, I’d hope that the fight would soon end. I was always aware of the lust for blood of a portion of the fight crowd. There was that unconscious wish to see something dramatic happen. Often those who seemed the most timid would be the ones who screamed their lungs out at ringside, hoping their voices would mingle with the others. But the fight crowd was an essential part of the fight game. Without the people, there would have been no color, no stimulation and of course no gate.

Flexible thinking is a bit like mental martial arts—being ready to duck and weave,dodge and flow

I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘Ugh. Go on.’ ‘This whole thing is sort of like a boxing match,’ Myron began. ‘We’ve been ducking and diving and weaving and trying to keep away from our opponent. But we can only do that for so long. Eventually we have to throw a punch.’ She made a face. ‘Christ, that was lame.