Football Passion Quotes

Success comes in a lot of ways, but it doesn't come with money and it doesn't come with fame. It comes from having a meaning in your life, doing what you love and being passionate about what you do. That's having a life of success. When you have the ability to do what you love, love what you do and have the ability to impact people. That's having a life of success. That's what having a life of meaning is.

Like I said, magic comes from life, and especially from emotions. They're a source of the same intangible energy that everyone can feel when an autumn moon rises and fills you with a sudden sense of bone-deep excitement, or when the first warm breeze of spring rushes past your face, full of the scents of life, and drowns you in a sudden flood of unreasoning joy. The passion of mighty music that brings tears to your eyes, and the raw, bubbling, infectious laughter of small children at play, the bellowing power of a stadium full of football fans shouting "Hey!" in time to that damned song—they're all charged with magic. My magic comes from the same places. And maybe from darker places than that. Fear is an emotion, too. So is rage. So is lust. And madness. I'm not a particularly good person. I'm no Charles Manson or anything, but I'm not going to be up for canonization either. Though in the past, I think maybe I was a better person than I am today. In the past I hadn't seen so many people hurt and killed and terrorized by the same kind of power that damn well should have been making the world a nicer place, or at the least staying the hell away from it. I hadn't made so many mistakes back then, so many shortsighted decisions, some of which had cost people their lives. I had been sure of myself. I had been whole.

Watching him during the first several minutes of his delivery, Cecilia felt a pleasant sinking sensation in her stomach as she contemplated how deliciously self-destructive it would be, almost erotic, to be married to a man so nearly handsome, so hugely rich, so unfathomably stupid. He would fill her with his big-faced children, all of them loud, boneheaded boys with a passion for guns and football and aeroplanes.

I'll explain it to you. To me it's more than a game." She touches her chest and says, "When you love something as much as I love football, you just feel it inside. Did you ever love doing something so bad that it consumed you?" "A long time ago." "That's what football is to me. It's my passion, my life… my escape. When I play, I forget everything that sucks in my life. And when we win…" She looks down like she's embarrassed to admit what she's about to reveal. "I know this is going to sound stupid, but when we win I think miracles can happen.

Maria, lonely prostitute on a street of pain, You, at least, hail me and speak to me While a thousand others ignore my face. You offer me an hour of love, And your fees are not as costly as most. You are the madonna of the lonely, The first-born daughter in a world of pain. You do not turn fat men aside, Or trample on the stuttering, shy ones, You are the meadow where desperate men Can find a moment's comfort. Men have paid more to their wives To know a bit of peace And could not walk away without the guilt That masquerades as love. You do not bind them, lovely Maria, you comfort them And bid them return. Your body is more Christian than the Bishop's Whose gloved hand cannot feel the dropping of my blood. Your passion is as genuine as most, Your caring as real! But you, Maria, sacred whore on the endless pavement of pain, You, whose virginity each man may make his own Without paying ought but your fee, You who know nothing of virgin births and immaculate conceptions, You who touch man's flesh and caress a stranger, Who warm his bed to bring his aching skin alive, You make more sense than stock markets and football games Where sad men beg for virility. You offer yourself for a fee--and who offers himself for less? At times you are cruel and demanding--harsh and insensitive, At times you are shrewd and deceptive--grasping and hollow. The wonder is that at times you are gentle and concerned, Warm and loving. You deserve more respect than nuns who hide their sex for eternal love; Your fees are not so high, nor your prejudice so virtuous. You deserve more laurels than the self-pitying mother of many children, And your fee is not as costly as most. Man comes to you when his bed is filled with brass and emptiness, When liquor has dulled his sense enough To know his need of you. He will come in fantasy and despair, Maria, And leave without apologies. He will come in loneliness--and perhaps Leave in loneliness as well. But you give him more than soldiers who win medals and pensions, More than priests who offer absolution And sweet-smelling ritual, More than friends who anticipate his death Or challenge his life, And your fee is not as costly as most. You admit that your love is for a fee, Few women can be as honest. There are monuments to statesmen who gave nothing to anyone Except their hungry ego, Monuments to mothers who turned their children Into starving, anxious bodies, Monuments to Lady Liberty who makes poor men prisoners. I would erect a monument for you-- who give more than most-- And for a meager fee. Among the lonely, you are perhaps the loneliest of all, You come so close to love But it eludes you While proper women march to church and fantasize In the silence of their rooms, While lonely women take their husbands' arms To hold them on life's surface, While chattering women fill their closets with clothes and Their lips with lies, You offer love for a fee--which is not as costly as most-- And remain a lonely prostitute on a street of pain. You are not immoral, little Maria, only tired and afraid, But you are not as hollow as the police who pursue you, The politicians who jail you, the pharisees who scorn you. You give what you promise--take your paltry fee--and Wander on the endless, aching pavements of pain. You know more of universal love than the nations who thrive on war, More than the churches whose dogmas are private vendettas made sacred, More than the tall buildings and sprawling factories Where men wear chains. You are a lonely prostitute who speaks to me as I pass, And I smile at you because I am a lonely man.

A human being will rarely admit this to you, but they tend to be terrified of living forever. They were born and raised with the understanding that their lives would end. They've achieved everything they wanted to achieve, all the ills that plagued them. And now boredom is their only enemy. And they get up in the morning and fight it every day of their eternal lives. Recreation and play sustain them. Football sustains them. And if you find yourself in a football game that's such a gargantuan task, that seems undefeatable, that will claim eons of your time and your passion? I think that makes you one of the lucky ones.

Don’t let society’s labels hold you back. If you have a true passion for something whether its sports, art, science, etc…don’t believe anyone who says you can’t do it because you’re a girl. If you want to play baseball, hockey, or football, don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t. If you want to play with Hot Wheel cars and Legos, then do it. Only you are the boss of you

She looked surprised. “You remember.” “Of course.” Blake couldn’t forget the way Farrah’s eyes lit up when she talked about the competition. She was studying interior design because she loved it, not because everyone said she should. Her passion was refreshing…and depressing. Blake had never felt that way about football or anything else in his life, really.

He watched them with the passionate regret with which he saw them play football or go to dances: the activity itself did not interest, but the power to share it would have made him less apart.

What is a club in any case? Not the buildings or the directors or the people who are paid to represent it. It’s not the television contracts, get-out clauses, marketing departments or executive boxes. It’s the noise, the passion, the feeling of belonging, the pride in your city. It’s a small boy clambering up stadium steps for the very first time, gripping his father’s hand, gawping at that hallowed stretch of turf beneath him and, without being able to do a thing about it, falling in love.

You see football isn’t just about 90 minutes, it‘s about passion and, yes, if you like, about life. We men will do things under the umbrella of football fandom that we would never dream of doing in any other sphere of life, and within the pages that follow I will try and explain why.

We are so much distracted nowadays. There is so much distractions in the world today call it internet, media, football matches etc. but don't let it consume you.

Inflate yourself with a genuine passion always. This makes it possible for you to bounce back when you fall. The football is loaded with air and no sooner does it hit the floor than it bounces back again!

You all know and lived the 'secrets' to De La Salle's success-love, brotherhood, sacrifice, discipline, heart, courage, passion, honesty. These are not just 'catch words' we throw around to impress others or justify our existence. We know what these mean because we created it and lived it. Understand that with that knowledge there is no turning back for us-ignorance is not an option. It is your future duty, no matter where you end up, to create the environment you have created here by bringing your best selves to the table.

Of course, to be a good football player, technique does matter, and that’s something you acquire when you’re between seven and twelve, but it’s not enough on its own: Not being afraid, knowing how to take the initiative, being resilient, reliable, showing solidarity, being a bit crazy, having one hell of a passion—

It is, as calls to arms go, straightforward. Crystal clear. And if you aren’t looking forward to Spurs and Kazan, to Southampton and Bournemouth, if that just doesn’t get you going, wanting to be emotional, unashamedly emotional, optimistic, passionate in a way that outsiders love to mock and our own meek minded souls call 'embarrassing' then you know what? There’s the door. There is the door, and you can walk through it, and both you and us will be happier for that. Because, for ninety minutes every few days, this fella represents Liverpool, eleven lads wearing Red represent Liverpool and we represent Liverpool. Wherever we are on globe, with an even greater responsibility if we are in the stadium.

The greatest gift I ever was given was an open heart for the people around me. I loved tenderly, I loved emotionally, and I loved with passion. That love brought me the greatest people in my life, and I know, sitting in my bed, blankets covering my legs, that I will leave this Earth with a legacy. A legacy that doesn’t speak of the work I put into my career, but a legacy in the people I loved.

I think we all need it in one shape or another, so why wouldn't it be normal to talk openly about how we're feeling? "I'm happy we won the footy." "I'm pissed off the ref didn't give that penalty." "I'm so excited to see who they sign next." If we apply such a passionate tongue and eager ear to something like football, for instance, why wouldn't we do the same about the unspoken stuff? "I couldn't get out of bed this morning because everything felt too much." "I don't know what I'm doing with my life." "I know I'm loved, so why do I feel so lonely?" Rather than see therapy as the emergency consequence of excess or illness, we should start to see it for what it can be: an essential opportunity to take time out from the voices in your head, the pressures of the world and the expectations we place on ourselves.

I have never truly been sincere and enthusiastic except when I used to play sports and, in the army, when I took part in the plays that we put on for our own enjoyment. In both cases, there was a set of rules, which was not serious, though you pretended to take it seriously. Even today, Sunday football matches in a crowded stadium, and the theatre, which I have loved with a unique passion, are the only places where I feel innocent.

I love football. I love the aesthetics of football. I love the athleticism of football. I love the movement of the players, the antics of the coaches. I love the dynamism of the fans. I love their passion for their badge and the colour of their team and their country. I love the noise and the buzz and the electricity in the stadium. I love the songs. I love the way the ball moves and then it flows and the way a teams fortune rises and falls through a game and through a season. But what I love about football is that it brings people together across religious divides, geographic divides, political divides. I love the fact that for ninety minutes in a rectangular piece of grass, people can forget hopefully, whatever might be going on in their life, and rejoice in this communal celebration of humanity. The biggest diverse, invasive or pervasive culture that human kinds knows is football and I love the fact that at the altar of football human kind can come worship and celebrate.

The eccentric passion of Shankly was underlined for me by my England team-mate Roger Hunt's version of the classic tale of the Liverpool manager's pre-game talk before playing Manchester United. The story has probably been told a thousand times in and out of football, and each time you hear it there are different details, but when Roger told it the occasion was still fresh in his mind and I've always believed it to be the definitive account. It was later on the same day, as Roger and I travelled together to report for England duty, after we had played our bruising match at Anfield. Ian St John had scored the winner, then squared up to Denis Law, with Nobby finally sealing the mood of the afternoon by giving the Kop the 'V' sign. After settling down in our railway carriage, Roger said, 'You may have lost today, but you would have been pleased with yourself before the game. Shanks mentioned you in the team talk. When he says anything positive about the opposition, normally he never singles out players.' According to Roger, Shankly burst into the dressing room in his usual aggressive style and said, 'We're playing Manchester United this afternoon, and really it's an insult that we have to let them on to our field because we are superior to them in every department, but they are in the league so I suppose we have to play them. In goal Dunne is hopeless- he never knows where he is going. At right back Brennan is a straw- any wind will blow him over. Foulkes the centre half kicks the ball anywhere. On the left Tony Dunne is fast but he only has one foot. Crerand couldn't beat a tortoise. It's true David Herd has got a fantastic shot, but if Ronnie Yeats can point him in the right direction he's likely to score for us. So there you are, Manchester United, useless...' Apparently it was at this point the Liverpool winger Ian Callaghan, who was never known to whisper a single word on such occasions, asked, 'What about Best, Law and Charlton, boss?' Shankly paused, narrowed his eyes, and said, 'What are you saying to me, Callaghan? I hope you're not saying we cannot play three men.

It may seem that there are many followers of Jesus, but if they were honestly to define the relationship they have with him I am not sure it would be accurate to describe them as followers. It seems to me that there is a more suitable word to describe them. They are not followers of Jesus. They are fans of Jesus. Here is the most basic definition of fan in the dictionary: “An enthusiastic admirer” It’s the guy who goes to the football game with no shirt and a painted chest. He sits in the stands and cheers for his team. He’s got a signed jersey hanging on his wall at home and multiple bumper stickers on the back of his car. But he’s never in the game. He never breaks a sweat or takes a hard hit in the open field. He knows all about the players and can rattle off their latest stats, but he doesn’t know the players. He yells and cheers, but nothing is really required of him. There is no sacrifice he has to make. And the truth is, as excited as he seems, if the team he’s cheering for starts to let him down and has a few off seasons, his passion will wane pretty quickly. After several losing seasons you can expect him to jump off the fan wagon and begin cheering for some other team. He is an enthusiastic admirer.

The conversation swings from the brothers Bush to the war in Iraq to the emerging rights of Muslim women to postfeminism to current cinema—Mexican, American, European (Giorgio goes spasmodically mad over Bu-ñuel), and back to Mexican again—to the relative superiority of shrimp over any other kind of taco to the excellence of Ana’s paella, to Ana’s childhood, then to Jimena’s, to the changing role of motherhood in a postindustrial world, to sculpture, then painting, then poetry, then baseball, then Jimena’s inexplicable (to Pablo) fondness for American football (she’s a Dallas Cowboys fan) over real (to Pablo) fútbol, to his admittedly adolescent passion for the game, to the trials of adolescence itself and revelations over the loss of virginity and why we refer to it as a loss and now Óscar and Tomás, arms over each other’s shoulders, are chanting poetry and then Giorgio picks up a guitar and starts to play and this is the Juárez that Pablo loves, this is the city of his soul—the poetry, the passionate discussions (Ana makes her counterpoints jabbing her cigarette like a foil; Jimena’s words flow like a gentle wave across beach sand, washing away the words before; Giorgio trills a jazz saxophone while Pablo plays bass—they are a jazz combo of argument), the ideas flowing with the wine and beer, the lilting music in a black night, this is the gentle heartbeat of the Mexico that he adores, the laughter, the subtle perfume of desert flowers that grow in alleys alongside garbage, and now everyone is singing— México, está muy contento, Dando gracias a millares… —and this is his life—this is his city, these are his friends, his beloved friends, these people, and if this is all that there is or will be, it is enough for him, his world, his life, his city, his people, his sad beautiful Juárez… —empezaré de Durango, Torreón y Ciudad de

Comparing marriage to football is no insult. I come from the South where football is sacred. I would never belittle marriage by saying it is like soccer, bowling, or playing bridge, never. Those images would never work, only football is passionate enough to be compared to marriage. In other sports, players walk onto the field, in football they run onto the field, in high school ripping through some paper, in college (for those who are fortunate enough) they touch the rock and run down the hill onto the field in the middle of the band. In other sports, fans cheer, in football they scream. In other sports, players ‘high five’, in football they chest, smash shoulder pads, and pat your rear. Football is a passionate sport, and marriage is about passion. In football, two teams send players onto the field to determine which athletes will win and which will lose, in marriage two families send their representatives forward to see which family will survive and which family will be lost into oblivion with their traditions, patterns, and values lost and forgotten. Preparing for this struggle for survival, the bride and groom are each set up. Each has been led to believe that their family’s patterns are all ‘normal,’ and anyone who differs is dense, naïve, or stupid because, no matter what the issue, the way their family has always done it is the ‘right’ way. For the premarital bride and groom in their twenties, as soon as they say, “I do,” these ‘right’ ways of doing things are about to collide like two three hundred and fifty pound linemen at the hiking of the ball. From “I do” forward, if not before, every decision, every action, every goal will be like the line of scrimmage. Where will the family patterns collide? In the kitchen. Here the new couple will be faced with the difficult decision of “Where do the cereal bowls go?” Likely, one family’s is high, and the others is low. Where will they go now? In the bathroom. The bathroom is a battleground unmatched in the potential conflicts. Will the toilet paper roll over the top or underneath? Will the acceptable residing position for the lid be up or down? And, of course, what about the toothpaste? Squeeze it from the middle or the end? But the skirmishes don’t stop in the rooms of the house, they are not only locational they are seasonal. The classic battles come home for the holidays. Thanksgiving. Which family will they spend the noon meal with and which family, if close enough, will have to wait until the nighttime meal, or just dessert if at all? Christmas. Whose home will they visit first, if at all? How much money will they spend on gifts for his family? for hers? Then comes for many couples an even bigger challenge – children of their own! At the wedding, many couples take two candles and light just one often extinguishing their candle as a sign of devotion. The image is Biblical. The Bible is quoted a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one. What few prepare them for is the upcoming struggle, the conflict over the unanswered question: the two shall become one, but which one? Two families, two patterns, two ways of doing things, which family’s patterns will survive to play another day, in another generation, and which will be lost forever? Let the games begin.

Melinda was still stuck on the 24 thing. “And I don’t see you grabbing the remote away from me when that countdown clock starts chiming,” she said to Pete. “Unless it’s to get a quick check of the scores on Monday nights.” Nick’s ears perked up at the mention of scores. Sports. Now there was a topic upon which he could wax poetic. “Too bad Monday night football is over,” he lamented to Pete. “But there’s always basketball. Who are you eying for the Final Four?” Pete looked mildly embarrassed as he gestured to Melinda. “She’s, um, referring to the scores on Dancing with the Stars.” “He likes it when they do the paso doblé,” Melinda threw in. “The dance symbolizes the drama, artistry, and passion of a bullfight. It’s quite masculine,” Pete said. “Except for the sequins and spray tans,” Melinda added. Pete clapped his hands together, ignoring this. “How about you, Nick? Are you a fan of the reality television performing arts?

I opened the front door of my parents’ house the next evening. His starched blue denim shirt caught my eye only seconds before his equally blue eyes did. “Hello,” he said, smiling. Those eyes. They were fixed on mine, and mine on his, for more seconds than is customary at the very beginning of a first date. My knees--the knees that had turned to rubber bands that night four months earlier in a temporary fit of illogical lust--were once again as firm as cooked spaghetti. “Hello,” I answered. I was wearing sleek black pants, a violet V-necked sweater, and spiked black boots--a glaring contrast to the natural, faded denim ensemble he’d chosen. Fashionwise, we were hilariously mismatched. I could sense that he noticed this, too, as my skinny heels obnoxiously clomped along the pavement of my parents’ driveway. We talked through dinner; if I ate, I wasn’t aware of it. We talked about my childhood on the golf course; about his upbringing in the country. About my dad, the doctor; about his dad, the rancher. About my lifelong commitment to ballet; about his lifelong passion for football. About my brother Mike; about his older brother, Todd, who had died when he was a teenager. About Los Angeles and celebrities; cows and agriculture. By the end of the evening, I had no idea what exactly I’d even said. All I knew was, I was riding in a Ford F250 diesel pickup with a cowboy--and there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.

There is a persistent theory, held by those who prate most steadily about "the American way of life" that the average American is a rugged individualist to whom the whole conception of "leadership" is something foreign and distasteful—and this theory would certainly seem to be in accord with our national tradition of lawlessness and disrespect for authority. But it is not entirely consistent with the facts. We Americans are inveterate hero worshipers, to a far greater extent than are the British and the French. We like to personalize our loyalties, our causes. In our political or business or labor organizations, we are comforted by the knowledge that at the top is a Big Boss whom we are free to revere or to hate and upon whom we can depend for quick decisions when the going gets tough. The same is true of our Boy Scout troops and our criminal gangs. It is most conspicuously true of our passion for competitive sport. We are trained from childhood to look to the coach for authority in emergencies. The masterminding coach who can send in substitutes with instructions whenever he feels like it—or even send in an entirely new team—is a purely American phenomenon. In British football the team must play through the game with the same eleven men with which it started and with no orders from the sidelines; if a man is injured and forced to leave the field the team goes on playing with only ten men. In British sport, there are no Knute Rocknes or Connie Macks, whereas in American sport the mastermind is considered as an essential in the relentless pursuit of superiority.

...literature does its best to maintain that its concern is with the mind ; that the body is a sheet of plain glass through which the soul looks straight and clear, and, save for one or two passions such as desire and greed, is null , negligible and nonexistent. On the contrary, the very opposite is true. All day, all night the body intervenes; blunts or sharpens, colours or discolours, turns to wax in the warmth of June, hardens to tallow in the murk of February. The creature within can only gaze through the pane—smudged or rosy; it cannot separate off from the body like the sheath of a knife or the pod of a pea for a single instant; it must go through the whole unending procession of changes, heat and cold, comfort and discomfort, hunger and satisfaction, health and illness, until there comes the inevitable catastrophe; the body smashes itself to smithereens, and the soul (it is said) escapes. But of all this daily drama of the body there is no record. People write always about the doings of the mind; the thoughts that come to it; its noble plans; how it has civilised the universe. They show it ignoring the body in the philosopher's turret; or kicking the body, like an old leather football, across leagues of snow and desert in the pursuit of conquest or discovery. Those great wars which it wages by itself, with the mind a slave to it, in the solitude of the bedroom against the assault of fever or the oncome of melancholia, are neglected. Nor is the reason far to seek. To look these things squarely in the face would need the courage of a lion tamer; a robust philosophy; a reason rooted in the bowels of the earth. Short of these, this monster, the body, this miracle, its pain, will soon make us taper into mysticism, or rise, with rapid beats of the wings, into the raptures of transcendentalism. More practically speaking, the public would say that a novel devoted to influenza lacked plot; they would complain that there was no love in it—wrongly however, for illness often takes on the disguise of love, and plays the same odd tricks, investing certain faces with divinity, setting us to wait, hour after hour, with pricked ears for the creaking of a stair, and wreathing the faces of the absent (plain enough in health, Heaven knows) with a new significance, while the mind concocts a thousand legends and romances about them for which it has neither time nor liberty in health.

literature does itsnbest to maintain that its concern is with the mind ; that the body is a sheet of plain glass through which the soul looks straight and clear, and, save for one or two passions such as desire and greed, is null , negligible and nonexistent. On the contrary, the very opposite is true. All day, all night the body intervenes; blunts or sharpens, colours or discolours, turns to wax in the warmth of June, hardens to tallow in the murk of February. The creature within can only gaze through the pane—smudged or rosy; it cannot separate off from the body like the sheath of a knife or the pod of a pea for a single instant; it must go through the whole unending procession of changes, heat and cold, comfort and discomfort, hunger and satisfaction, health and illness, until there comes the inevitable catastrophe; the body smashes itself to smithereens, and the soul (it is said) escapes. But of all this daily drama of the body there is no record. People write always about the doings of the mind; the thoughts that come to it; its noble plans; how it has civilised the universe. They show it ignoring the body in the philosopher's turret; or kicking the body, like an old leather football, across leagues of snow and desert in the pursuit of conquest or discovery. Those great wars which it wages by itself, with the mind a slave to it, in the solitude of the bedroom against the assault of fever or the oncome of melancholia, are neglected. Nor is the reason far to seek. To look these things squarely in the face would need the courage of a lion tamer; a robust philosophy; a reason rooted in the bowels of the earth. Short of these, this monster, the body, this miracle, its pain, will soon make us taper into mysticism, or rise, with rapid beats of the wings, into the raptures of transcendentalism. More practically speaking, the public would say that a novel devoted to influenza lacked plot; they would complain that there was no love in it—wrongly however, for illness often takes on the disguise of love, and plays the same odd tricks, investing certain faces with divinity, setting us to wait, hour after hour, with pricked ears for the creaking of a stair, and wreathing the faces of the absent (plain enough in health, Heaven knows) with a new significance, while the mind concocts a thousand legends and romances about them for which it has neither time nor liberty in health.

Whether you are a good or bad writer is an irrelevancy when you first begin. What's important is that you write, you get up in the morning and you say, "I'm going to treat this like a job and I'm not going to just do this when I feel like it. I'm going to really get to work on making this the best I can make it, and work hard to achieve something". You can't sit around waiting for inspiration to strike like lightning, cause you'll wait around for a long time. Maybe once every blue moon a piece of lightning will strike, but most of the time you'll wait around twiddling your thumbs. What you have to do is just get on with it, and write whatever comes out and not worry over much about whether the punctuation is right or the spelling is right or even if the order of the words is right, but just get on with it. "You have to go after, seek after the things which are truthful to you. And I mean truthful. If you don't believe in Christ, then don't have a hero whipping out holy water when it suits him, because you're not telling the truth about what you believe about the world. If you don't believe that the image of Christ is ethicasy in the world, then don't have your hero use it in such a way. All you doing is accessing a series of cliches from somebody else's work. If you're gay, write about gay characters. If you're straight, write about straight characters. If you're straight and confused, write about straight and confused characters. If your passion is about painting and football, write about painting and football. Write about your mother, write about your father, write about things you know, and then let your imagination lurk on those things and develop them into something new and fresh even for you. Surprise yourself, astonish yourself, and tell the truth.

Joiner’s article “On Buckeyes, Gators, Super Bowl Sunday, and the Miracle on Ice” makes a strong case that it’s not the winning that counts but the taking part—the shared experience. It is true that he found fewer suicides in Columbus, Ohio, and Gainesville, Florida, in the years when the local college football teams did well. But Joiner argues that this is because fans of winning teams “pull together” more: they wear the team shirt more often, watch games together in bars, talk about the team, and so on, much as happens in a European country while the national team is playing in a World Cup. The “pulling together” saves people from suicide, not the winning. Proof of this is that Joiner found fewer suicides in the US on Super Bowl Sundays than on other Sundays at that time of year, even though few of the Americans who watch the Super Bowl are passionate supporters of either team. What they get from the day’s parties is a sense of belonging. That is the lifesaver. In Europe today, there may be nothing that brings a society together like a World Cup with your team in it. For once, almost everyone in the country is watching the same TV programs and talking about them at work the next day, just as Europeans used to do thirty years ago before they got cable TV. Part of the point of watching a World Cup is that almost everyone else is watching, too. Isolated people—the types at most risk of suicide—are suddenly welcomed into the national conversation. They

Like a lot of parents, I had a strong intuition that grit is enhanced by doing activities like ballet . . . or piano . . . or football . . . or really any structured extracurricular activity. These activities possess two important features that are hard to replicate in any other setting. First, there’s an adult in charge—ideally, a supportive and demanding one—who is not the parent. Second, these pursuits are designed to cultivate interest, practice, purpose, and hope. The ballet studio, the recital hall, the dojo, the basketball court, the gridiron—these are the playing fields of grit.

coming together, more than anything I’d ever experienced before. This was her. My best friend. “There’s no coming back from this.” She panted, “I know.” I positioned my knee a little higher, causing her leg to incline with mine. Her breathing spiked, and I knew I was hitting her g-spot better from the angle. My face hovered above hers as we caught our breath, trying to find a rhythm. It was effortless, the two of us coming together. My thrusts became harder and rougher, her body responded perfectly with mine. Our hips moved like we were made for each other. I lapped at her breasts, unable to get enough of her. “Leo,” she breathed out, and I swear my cock got harder. I moved back up to her face, and our mouths parted, we both panted profusely. I felt myself starting to come unhinged which was very unusual for me. Fuck me. Don’t come so fast, Leo. Think about baseball, about football, about anything other than how incredible she felt throbbing on the head of your cock. “Fuck, you feel good. How do you feel this good?” “I’m almost there,” she breathlessly gasped. “Mmm…” I groaned, her pussy gripping onto my dick. “If you do that again, I’m going to come.” “What happened to ladies first?” “No one feels like you, Lala. Jesus, it’s like your pussy was made for me.” Mila apparently liked dirty talk, in less than a second, she exploded around my shaft. Long. Hard. Utterly mind-blowing. Climaxing all the way down to my balls and taking me right over with her. I shook with my release and passionately kissed her. From her neck. To her breasts. Back up to her lips.

You and I love in a culture where we gather in stadiums and around television for hours at a time to watch guys run around a field with a pigskin ball in their hands as they try to cross a white line. We express enthusiasm, emotions, and affection for football and other sports, and it begs the question, what would happen in our culture if the church prayed with such passion? What would happen if Jesus dominated our affections more than the superficial trivialities that garner our attention? What would happen if we spent hours before God praying on behalf of the church, the lost, and the poor around the world?

If I could redo college and choose any school, I’d choose Michigan again. Yes, the education was great. Yes, I made amazing friends. But the biggest reason for choosing Michigan again would be the aura of its collegiate football program. Auras naturally form around things like sports, religions, and political parties. But anything can have an aura. You should be looking for auras in every relationship you cultivate, every project you engage in, and every company you work for (or build). Different auras work for different people. You have to find one that works for you. While having an aura is a good thing, not having one is equally as bad. There are droves of companies with no aura. If you’re in one of these organizations, get out. I worked in a company with no aura for far too long. My department was the result of an acquisition that happened before I was hired, and the upper management never really knew what to do with our team. After two years of punching in and punching out, I quit. That’s when I started a company of my own, and I’m glad I took the risk. I found out recently that my department at the old company folded and, frankly, I’m not surprised. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I’m sure it had something to do with the aura, or lack thereof. When you’re part of an aura, you’re experiencing the essence of being alive. Caring. Believing. Feeling. Without it, you’re just showing up.

I want to dedicate today's journal to Football . I hated it before because of my father and elder brother: they were so fanatic that there were Football news playing at home almost everyday. How boring! For this world cup 2014 I decided to give football a last chance and...what a great expeience it's being! I have learnt a lot and I stopped refusing invitations to watch the games. As a result, I have better relations with my co-workers. I will never be a big fan but at least I will be more tolerant with sports in the future. Theee is one thing I have to say about football in my country, Colombia: There ks not one thing or person that can form a patriotic spirit as football does. It is the element that unites people most.Our national identity is not about language nor religion but the passion for this sport. Can you imagine that? I do not mean to criticise but it's our reality, what make us 'unique'. So, enjoy this world cup, colombians!

It quickly became apparent that the team was clicking with its new coach. In an early-season pregame speech, Harbaugh implored his players to bleed for Stanford football, even going so far as to say that he wanted them to bring him their blood during a game. Harbaugh’s wish was Marinelli’s command. “Marinelli gets a cut on his arm,” McNally remembers, “he runs over to Coach Harbaugh. He’s like, ‘Coach, I’m bleeding for Stanford!’ Coach swipes the blood and, like, rubs it across his face in the middle of the game. And it’s the kind of thing where it’s like, ‘Coach, you’re freaking crazy.’ But that’s pretty awesome. That kind of thing, you laugh about it, but deep down you’re like, ‘That’s pretty cool. You’re crazy, you’re freakin’ out of your mind. But you’re passionate about this game, about Stanford football, and I can get on board with that.

When a TV network — not to pick on TV — devotes hours and hours to the salacious details of a crime of passion that affects none of our lives, is that advocacy? No. When an online site collects pictures of cute cats, is that advocacy? Hardly. When a newspaper devotes resources to covering football games, is that advocacy? Sorry, but no.

Football was his passion, his obsession, the thing he knew best, and Serie A was considered the league that practised the most advanced defensive tactics since Sacchi. His Milan of the eighties were regarded as having set the benchmark in terms of work rate and defensive strategy over the previous two decades – and Pep was determined to learn as much as he could from his time in Italy.

You know that society has failed you, that men have failed you as a woman when you read the horrors that depraved disgusting monsters have done to a 31 year old who was a self-actualized and successful woman chasing her passions just like the rest of us. Yet because she is a woman, she was not spared an ounce of mercy. What are we meant to hope or to believe when society keeps failing us, when men keep preying upon us like predators and see us like nothing else but meat whose bones they should jump? No matter how impressive we are, we’re always regarded as “less” and “lesser” because the world was built to make us feel ashamed and small for existing. Such is the state of women now in 2024 pushing forward, we’re still in the Dark Ages. Isn’t it heartwrenching how we must always live in fear that tomorrow it could be us, how no woman is safe, how people,have become so desensitized to this when rapists walk free on parole, when they feel remorseless. Haven’t society and men failed women over and over? To think that days ago, men were all over the Olympics, piping up about silly acrobatics and have an informed opinion about which football rivalry is most exciting and now no second is spared for the only movement that matters above all else, not even two words spared for our sakes. And then there are those women! Who shame on them still subscribe to the ‘benevolent sexism’ and encourage it. WE SEE YOU ALL AND WE’LL REMEMBER YOUR SILENCE ABOVE ALL ELSE. Justice for Moumita and Murdabad to her perpetrators.

I want you to remember this: don’t mistake expectations for passion. What you expect from yourself—that’s not passion. That’s your brain communicating to you to keep pushing. Passion is a deep-rooted feeling that you can’t shake off. A strong, uncontrollable emotion you have for a particular thing or particular person.

He [Steve Ross] said he used to have the same prejudices against the game as most Americans: It was too slow, too "foreign," too difficult to understand what was really going on. But once he started watching the game, and had some friends explain it to him, he realized how fascinating soccer could be. He believed that it just needed the right conditions to thrive. In other words, he saw soccer like an entrepreneur, which of course was exactly what he was, and an excellent one at that. He spotted an unmet need, an undervalued asset, and made it his personal mission to make it succeed, come hell or high water. After the Cosmos struggled through its first few seasons, switching stadiums every so often and failing to generate much buzz, Steve purchased the team from its original investors for the grand price of one dollar. And then, for no good reason other than his own passion and drive, Steve decided to throw the entire commercial and marketing weight of Warner Communications behind the team. He would not only make the Cosmos a winner, but bring a "new" spectator sport to the American public.

Al Noor Sports is not just an online store; it's a celebration of football passion. As we continue to evolve, we remain steadfast in our commitment to Google's guidelines, ensuring that our content and offerings meet the highest standards of expertise, accuracy, transparency, comprehension, and reader value. Join us on this exhilarating journey as we bring the world of authentic football shirts to your doorstep – because your love for the game deserves nothing less.

In your mind, play in the style of your chosen one. Compete hard, with passion, with commitment, with a will for victory that knows no limits.

Mike tells me that two key factors promote excellence in individuals and in teams: “deep and rich support and relentless challenge to improve.” When he says that, a lightbulb goes on in my head. Supportive and demanding parenting is psychologically wise and encourages children to emulate their parents. It stands to reason that supportive and demanding leadership would do the same. I begin to get it. For this professional football team, it’s not solely about defeating other teams, it’s about pushing beyond what you can do today so that tomorrow you’re just a little bit better. It’s about excellence. So, for the Seahawks, Always compete means Be all you can be, whatever that is for you. Reach for your best.

1892 is not only an ordinary date, but it is the time of existence of a football giant, a rare legend of the 21st century that does not smell of blood and tears. It is the date of birth of a team which wrote a history that not only must be read, but must also be memorized. A little after its foundation, it became the nightmare of first the Premier League clubs and then other clubs around the World. There was no team it didn’t defeat and no fun group it didn’t upset. Within 125 years, it won 18 league championships, 5 European cups, 7 FA cups, 8 league cups, 3 UEFA Super Cups, 15 Charity Shield Cups, ve 3 FA Youth Cups. As the club began to win cups, it got richer and its support group expanded. It conquered the hearts of about 600 million people around the World, its name and its song was chanted everyday by its supporters. Joy and sorrow, night and day, death and life always follow each other like victory and defeat. By the early 1990s the ship began to leak. Its popularity diminished around the World as it weakened and its opponents strengthened. That made its management hopeless, its supporters sad and its players pressured. Infrequent derby victories became only a consolation and past memories and childish dreams became the only sanctuary for its supporters. However its love has never ceased and will not. Because it is not only a football team, it is an excitement, a desire for victory, a passion, a love. Yes, it is a love, a red-white love. And this book is a message thrown into the ocean of the future within a bottle to highlight the expectations and dreams of lovers of red-white colors. Will the bottle reach the shore, will anyone read its message, will the message mean anything for the people? No one can predict this.

For me, it is and has always been Leyton Orient. I can trace the roots of my passion to 1959, the year I went mad for football. I played, not very well, at my school, Buckhurst Hill County High.

Time passed fast and I was coming out from the reputed engineering college at last after the same Professor had intervened with the college authority for holding the examination in spite of political troubles, prevailing during seventies in Calcutta. The sprawling complex of the university would suddenly vanish from my view. I would be missing the chirping of the birds in early morning, view of green grass of the football field right in front of our building, badly mauled by the students and pedestrians who used to cut short their journey moving across the field, whistling of steam trains passing parallel to the backside of boundary wall of our building, stentorian voice of our Professors, ever smiling and refreshing faces of the learned Professors every day. I would definitely miss the opportunity of gossiping on a bench by the lake side with other students, not to speak of your girlfriend with whom you would try to be cozy with to keep yourself warm when the chilling breeze, which put roses in girls’ cheeks but made sinuses ache, cut across you in its journey towards the open field during winter. The charm of walking along the lonely streets proscribed for outsiders and bowing occasionally when you meet the Professors of repute, music and band for the generation of ear deafening sound - both symphony and cacophony, on Saturdays and Sundays in the auditorium, rhythmic sound of machines in the workshop, hurly-burly of laughter of my friends, talks, cries at the top of  their lunges in the canteen and sudden departures of all from the canteen on hearing the ding-dong sound of the big bell hung in the administration building indicating the end of the period would no longer be there. The street fighting of two groups of students on flimsy grounds and passionate speeches of the students during debate competition would no longer be audible. Shaking of long thin pine trees violently by the storm flowing across these especially during summer, shouting and gesticulation of students’ union members while moving around the campus for better amenities or administration, getting caught with friends all around with revolvers in hand during the violent Naxalite movement, hiding in the toilet in canteen to avoid beating by police personnel, dropping of mangoes from a mango tree which spread its wings in all directions during the five years we were in the college near our building and running together by us to pick the green/ripe mangoes as fast as possible defying inclement weather and rain etc. were simply irresistible. The list was endless. I was going to miss very much the competition among us regarding number of mangoes we could collect for our few girlfriends whom we wanted to impress! I

One or two photos doing something you’re passionate about (playing music, throwing a football, building something, etc.) – these show personality depth and give her a sense of who you are. -          One or two stylish photos, where you pose in a basic environment with stylish clothing (go to Instagram and “steal” poses from accounts like Magic_Fox and HowToBeast) – these show that you clean up nice. - A dog photo (i.e., a photo with your dog or a friend’s dog) – women love dog photos!

It was the time of the change… no longer a little one, the time when, I was starting to see things happening, to me that I did not want to see. Like- passion pink braces on my unperfected overbite teeth along with ‘Pimples, periods, hips and boobs- oh my… I just want to cry or die.’ Moreover, I was utterly feeling all kinds of things that I didn’t want to feel. I was feeling too old for toys and wanted to feel up one of the older boys. I was an 8th grader, Yes, I was at that stage of my life… it feels strangely good and yet very weird too. ‘Oh yes- Live's through middle school all over again.’ All the days off. All the days on… all the days- I was turned off, to all of them. And yes, all the days, I was turned on! Yet, really can anyone stand to relive that day… I mean really! Let’s not forget I had to spend time with the family, on the brakes, then to come home and do all the pointless homework like advanced mathematics. When I got most of that crap done sitting in long study halls not able to move or say a sound, with period cramps, yeah- I know fun right! Kissing with open mouths, like breath sucking and tugs brushing Frenching. As well as thinking about what boy, I want to have sizzling, exhilarating, desiring sex with is all I thought about! Plus- when, where, and how! Yes, I have had some really bad kisses, make-outs, and hookups… who hasn’t? So much so, I barely survived through them the primary time it happened. Just like the world keeps going around, this was not my first go-around either. Frankly, I thought I would not have minded living through all that again. What I thought were the ultimate times of all. Like the time I made out with a girl in the hallway slammed upon her locker, she was touching me in all the right places, let us just say. Anyways her name is Jenny Stevenson. She is the type of girl that is a friend to try things with. Yes, I have been with a girl too. Mostly, I just wanted to see what being in a lesbian world feels like. It was okay, it feels just as good. Though, I knew boys were my thing. However, I am the type, I will try anything once, even sex-wise! Though I thought, my paramount triumphs were with Ray Raymond, and like when we first hooked up underneath the football stadium bleachers. I knew everyone could see us doing it with his pants down, and my bare butt sticking out and up, as the game was going on. Still, we were in the moment, we did not care. The PDA was half the fun of doing it, it was all about getting some. I remember being wasted too, with my friends like Jenny, Kenneth, and Madeline. Yet we just called her Maddie. Like- I said we got so drunk and high, that we went skinny dipping in like old man’s pool weather thirdly two degrees, and then made messed up looking snowman, and running around the street somewhat ass naked flashing whomever we would get to look at us.

And there, in a moment, was laid bare the prime deficiency of the English game. Football is not about players, or at least not just about players; it is about shape and about space, about the intelligent deployment of players, and their movement within that deployment. (I should, perhaps, make clear that by ‘tactics’ I mean a combination of formation and style: one 4-4-2 can be as different from another as Steve Stone from Ronaldinho.) The Argentinian was, I hope, exaggerating for effect, for heart, soul, effort, desire, strength, power, speed, passion and skill all play their parts, but, for all that, there is also a theoretical dimension, and, as in other disciplines, the English have, on the whole, proved themselves unwilling to grapple with the abstract.

In England, to any one who looks forward, the rampant bribery of the old fishing-ports, or the traditional and respectable corruption of the cathedral cities, seem comparatively small and manageable evils. The more serious grounds for apprehension come from the newest inventions of wealth and enterprise, the up-to-date newspapers, the power and skill of the men who direct huge aggregations of industrial capital, the organised political passions of working men who have passed through the standards of the elementary schools, and who live in hundreds of square miles of new, healthy, indistinguishable suburban streets. Every few years some invention in political method is made, and if it succeeds both parties adopt it. In politics, as in football, the tactics which prevail are not those which the makers of the rules intended, but those by which the players find that they can win, and men feel vaguely that the expedients by which their party is most likely to win may turn out not to be those by which a State is best governed.

The beach from that summer was called Roadside. It was 1958 and a lot of kids from West L.A. went there—tough kids with knives, razors, tire irons and lowered cars. No kids from my school or any of the schools nearby went to Roadside, they went to Sorrento where there were never any fights and where most of the kids from Hollywood High, Fairfax and Beverly spent their summers listening to “Venus” on the radio or playing volleyball. If I had only known about Sorrento, I never would have gone to the beach so passionately, since Sorrento was a dispassionate beach involved mainly in the junior high and high school ramifications of polite society, sororities, Seventeen magazine, football players and not getting your hair wet.

Soccer, for the football fanatic, has nothing to do with the quality of the game. Their local team might only score goals from accidental deflections off the butt, but the fans will still pay over fifteen quid to watch those gaffs, simply because it's their team. In fact, technically, their love for their team has nothing to do with soccer, but everything to do with these huge, abstract values — fidelity, passion, love.

What happens on the football field matters, not in the way that food matters but as poetry does to some people and alcohol does to others: it engages the personality.

Sachin is passionate for cricket and fame is passionate for Sachin.

This is truly a rags to riches story which doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. Hope is offered to those who face similar challenges that in this great Country dreams can be realized when work ethic and passion lead the way.

Almost every Division I college football team predates the oldest NFL teams by three or four decades. Most schools built their current stadiums before most NFL teams built their first—or second, or third. College football is one of those few passions we have in common with our great-grandparents.

From a young age, football was my passion, and this love for the sport led me to pursue a career as a professional footballer in England. While it was a dream come true, the financial rewards weren’t as substantial as I had hoped. Realizing the need for financial security beyond my football career, I began exploring alternative investment opportunities. At the time, Bitcoin was a hot topic among my colleagues, and their enthusiasm sparked my interest. With growing curiosity, I decided to invest £8,000 in Bitcoin, and over time, my investment grew to an impressive £50,000. This financial success gave me the confidence to expand my business ventures and take on larger projects. However, my excitement was short-lived when I fell victim to a sophisticated phishing scam. One day, I encountered a website that looked identical to my trusted trading platform. Believing it was legitimate, I entered my login details without hesitation. Shortly after, I discovered that my Bitcoin wallet had been emptied. Years of hard work and financial growth vanished in an instant. I was devastated and felt completely helpless. A friend in the crypto community recommended Rapid Digital Recovery, a team known for helping individuals recover stolen cryptocurrency. Desperate for a solution, I reached out to them, What sapp Info: +1 41 4 80 7 14 85, hoping they could help me reclaim what I had lost. From the very first interaction, I was impressed by their professionalism, expertise, and efficiency.The team at Rapid Digital Recovery thoroughly investigated the fraudulent activity, and to my immense relief, they managed to recover most of my stolen funds. Beyond their technical expertise, they also took the time to educate me on essential security measures. They recommended using hardware wallets for added safety, enabling two-factor authentication (2FA), and double-checking website URLs to avoid phishing scams in the future. Their guidance proved invaluable, not only helping me recover my funds but also ensuring that I could better protect my investments moving forward. My journey with Bitcoin has been a mix of success and challenges. While I’ve experienced the joy of financial growth, I’ve also learned the harsh realities of the digital world. Thanks to Rapid Digital Recovery, I now approach cryptocurrency with caution and confidence, armed with the knowledge to navigate this complex space securely. Email INFO: rap iddi gita lrecov ery @ exe cs. com

As a professional footballer playing for one of London’s top football teams, my life has always been focused on excelling in my career, working tirelessly to improve my skills, and delivering performances that would make my fans proud. The intensity of the game, the excitement of the crowd, and the bond with my teammates are things that make football more than just a job it’s my passion. Off the pitch, I’ve always been mindful of securing my future, and I knew that investing my money wisely was essential to maintaining my financial stability after my playing days. When I first heard about an investment broker that promised high returns with minimal risk, it sounded like a great opportunity to grow my savings. The company had a professional appearance, with glowing testimonials and a polished website that instilled confidence. They reassured me that they had a foolproof strategy for earning returns while minimizing risk, so I felt comfortable entrusting them with a significant portion of my earnings. I decided to invest 1 million euros, believing it was a sound decision that would help me secure my future. At first, everything seemed to go according to plan. I saw modest but steady returns, and the broker’s platform appeared to be user-friendly and transparent. Encouraged by this, I continued to increase my investments, watching the numbers in my account slowly grow. But, as time went on, the returns began to slow down, and eventually, I found myself unable to access my funds. Attempts to contact the broker were met with vague responses and delays, and soon, I realized that I had been scammed. The realization that I had lost 1 million euros was crushing. It felt like an enormous betrayal especially since I had worked so hard to build my career and manage my finances carefully. I was overwhelmed with a sense of hopelessness and frustration. I felt lost, not knowing what to do or where to turn for help. It was during this time of despair that I discovered FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY , a company that specialized in helping people recover funds lost to financial scams. At first, I was skeptical. Recovering such a large sum of money seemed like a long shot, but I was desperate, so I decided to give it a try. To my surprise, the team at FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY was incredibly professional and attentive. They quickly took charge of the situation, using their expertise and resources to track down my lost funds. Within just a few weeks, I was thrilled to find that they had successfully recovered the majority of the 1 million euros I had invested. Not only did they help me get my money back, but they also provided me with valuable advice on how to approach investments more cautiously in the future. I am truly grateful for their help. Thanks to FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY, I was able to restore my financial stability and learn critical lessons about the importance of due diligence when investing. Their dedication and professionalism gave me a renewed sense of confidence, not just in my financial decisions, but in how to navigate the often-risky world of investing. FOR MORE INFO: Email: fundsreclaimer(@) c o n s u l t a n t . c o m WhatsApp:+1 (361) 2 5 0- 4 1 1 0 Website: h t t p s ://fundsreclaimercompany . c o m

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With an MBA and six years of football coaching experience, Robert Walker Epps is a passionate leader and mentor. He’s been immersed in football since the third grade, honing his skills from the North Hall Junior Trojans to Virginia Military Institute.

Again the point was that where the special talents were high enough they chose themselves; not because they happened to fit but because they helped to decide the fit.

A dirty player, for example, means a dirty-playing club to them; an outstandingly brilliant forward makes them see his club in a brighter, more glamorous light. More damage to the game can be done by individual acts of vindictiveness than the guilty realize, or the game deserves.

I am not going to be popular in some quarters by saying here that I believe more people than are prepared to admit it take a surreptitious pleasure in this display of oafish anarchy on the football terraces.

Suggestions like these are not unknown to the clubs. It is deeply disappointing, to say the least of it, that so few clubs have chosen to act positively on them. They have prevaricated on the grounds of expense, of the difficulty of organization, of taking mountainous measures to cart away molehills. But the real reasons for their reluctance to act in such ways are nearer to cowardice than to a sense of proportion. They fear the fickleness of supporters; they fear that disgruntlement over the inevitably harsh treatment of some innocents, to say nothing of the guilty, might reduce public affection for the team; they fear that there might be reprisals by the excluded. On a more general, emotional plane, they wonder whether too much tampering with the tumult of football following might diminish it substantially in the public concern.

I’ve got a maxim in life. If ever someone beats me in a battle, I don’t blame them. I blame myself for letting them do it. Then I say, “Where have I gone wrong?

But a more likely suggestion is that a domestic Premier League may hive off from the English Football League to confine top-quality football to perhaps a dozen of the country’s major areas of population. This is a perfectly rational idea, and one which is known to find favour among a number of men in influential positions in football.

What happens on the football field matters, not in the way that food matters but as poetry does to some people and alcohol does to others: it engages the personality. It has conflict and beauty, and when those two qualities are present together in something offered for public appraisal they represent much of what I understand to be art.

To go to the match was to escape from the dark of despondency into the light of combat. Here, by association with the home team, positive identity could be claimed by muscle and in goals. To win was personal success, to lose another clout from life. Football was not so much an opiate of the people as a flag run up against the gaffer bolting his gates and the landlord armed with his bailiffs.

Cliff Lloyd said to me in 1967, four years after the historic court case, that he was convinced no other events in football had done more to lift the general standard of play to its present high level than these two. What is more, he said that he always maintained England could win the 1966 World Cup (as she did) if her players were liberated from the restrictions binding them so unreasonably, and in so much resentment, to clubs and low rewards. He said, with cold and telling perception, that without this liberation football would have gradually dwindled to the same sad status that county cricket has in England – ‘a jolly day out, take-it-or-leave-it sort of thing’. I, for one, could not bear my football to look like that.

George Eastham, the player concerned, had found himself in a position common to many footballers. He was a brilliantly gifted forward, of the thoughtful kind whom the game calls a ‘schemer’; he was an England international.

Hassan Lammou is a passionate youth mentor, accomplished football coach, and FIFA-certified agent.

Six6s – Bangladesh’s Go-To Platform for Live Sports Betting If you’re a sports fan in Bangladesh, chances are you love the thrill of every six in cricket or a last-minute goal in football. But what if you could make those moments even more exciting? That’s where Six6s comes in — an online platform that brings you the ultimate live sports betting experience. Let’s explore how Six6s is making waves in the online betting world and why it’s becoming a favorite among Bangladeshi users.

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