Gridiron Quotes

When you meet the girl who’ll be sitting on the front porch holding your hand when you’re eighty, you don’t let a thing like cool dismissive looks, big brothers, or fucking rules stand in your way.

If one has never known freedom, it is easy to be blind to the gridirons composing one's cell.

We didn’t fall for each other. We fell into each other.

We don’t get to pick the family we’re born into,” he says into the quiet night. “But we do get to choose the family we live with. I choose you. You’re all that I’ll ever want.

Masters, this won’t go anywhere.” He draws back slightly and frowns. “Is that how you think of me? As Masters? I’m not your teammate.” “I’m not anything to you.” The side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s what you think.

Football players are all different, but their focus is the same— winning, whether it’s on the field or off.” “Yeah,” Riley sighs. “It’s the same everywhere. Most of the guys I’ve met just want to hook up.” “I think I’d marry the first guy who hit on me in the bookstore.

No. I wish you actually had a high-powered vibrator in your room instead of the sewing machine. I can’t hump that, can I?

In a cozy corner of the electric flame department of the infernal regions there stands a little silver gridiron. It is the private property of his Satanic majesty, and is reserved exclusively for the man who invented amateur theatricals.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. I’m an only child. I don’t like to share. Won’t share. Don’t believe in sharing.

Knox Masters is exactly the type of guy I want to date. He dominates a sport I love. He’s confident but not arrogant. He’s funny, able to laugh at himself, and… shit, hot as the fires of Mordor. I mean, the One Ring could be forged in his hotness. I want him.

If all I wanted was a quick lay, you and I both know I could get that without any effort. I want something more than that from you.” “Welcome to disappointment. It’s character building.” … “I’m not experienced, but I know when a girl is into me, and you're into me. You want to play it casual, then that's how we play it... for now. But fair warning, I'm bringing everything I’ve got to tear down your resistance. My specialty is reading plays and then overcoming the barriers.

Laughing, I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. “You can fill me in later at the hotel room, and I'll be in the proper position to say yes.

I’m all for you exploring new shit, but guys are dicks regardless of whether they wear a jock strap or a pocket protector.” “That's a ringing endorsement of your gender.

His word is law, and his verbal beat downs are the kind where you just lie down in an awkward position and hope he maybe feels weird as he fucks you.

I’ve taken more satisfying dumps than the blowjobs those fuckups got.

I’m all for you exploring new shit, but guys are dicks regardless of whether they wear a jock strap or a pocket protector.

Hammer continues as if I haven’t said a word. “According to these Tantric sex gurus, you can make a girl come just by breathing on her.” I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Breathing? I don’t think any woman is having an orgasm even if I gusted tornado winds into her pussy.” “Not with that attitude you won’t.

The discipline this guy has amazes me. “You're big into delayed gratification.” “Waiting can be worth it.” “How would you know?” He laughs. He throws his head back, and the deep rumble starts in his body and ends in mine. Fuck me. He’s gorgeous, talented and has a goddamned sense of humor. Life is so unfair.

rummage around in the freezer. “Burritos?” “Hammer having a party tonight?” We look at each other and then the burrito. I toss it back into the freezer. “Right. Nothing says sexy like ripping one while you’re trying to close the deal.

We share a groan when I’m fully seated. She starts squeezing immediately with those goddamn muscles of hers. I gasp. “Give me a minute, baby. I need to catch my breath.” Her body quakes against mine as she laughs. “I thought you were this big strong athlete with loads of stamina and discipline.” “I practice football, not sexual Olympics,” I retort. She squeezes me again.

NFL in general: Millionaire babies taking to the field to shuck, jive and juke for elderly billionaire plantation masters. The players who do take a stand by kneeling are vilified, nullified and ostracized. And fans continue to subsidize this cirque du soulless in some publicly funded, corporate-owned stadium with the audacity to charge ten dollars for a cup of warm beer, eight dollars for cold hot dogs and ninety dollars for jerseys bearing terminally concussed gridiron legends’ names and numbers.

Now it’s my turn to be offended. “You said it was a study group.” “And you believed me?” “Why wouldn’t I?” Hell, maybe I shouldn’t venture outside the Gas Station. It’s too complex out here. “This is college, and study groups do exist. A lot. College is to study groups as libraries are to books. They go together.

Cohn wrote a joke for Trump to use at the Gridiron Dinner: “We’ve made enormous progress on the wall. All the drawings are done. All the excavating’s done. All the engineering is done. The only thing we’ve been stumbling with is we haven’t been able to figure out how to stretch the word ‘Trump’ over 1,200 miles.” Trump wouldn’t use it.

I gag her. Sometimes you’ve got to do that to your girlfriend.

God, I don't know why I'm telling you this.” Because you know it’s me. That I’m the one for you, just as you’re the one for me.

You can't stop me from liking you. It's just a thing. Like the sun rising and the tides coming in.

Kannan?

We don’t get to pick the family we’re born into, he says into the quiet night. But we do get to choose the family we live with. I choose you. You’re all that I’ll ever want.

I told myself one more page and then the clock flashed three in the morning.

I can’t tell if you want it to be true,” he says in a low voice that I feel as if I’m the only one who can hear. “I don’t know either,” I tell him honestly. “But if you are, I think I need to go to church tomorrow, because that means impossible things exist like unicorns and the resurrection.” He laughs then, a wide mouthed, white teeth flashing. “Tomorrow’s Friday.” I nod. “I know, but it can’t ever be too early to repent.

Save some of that for the game,” he orders. “Besides, you’re killing Ace’s confidence. Go do the ladder. You can work on your footwork and get rid of some of that goddamned energy without demoralizing half your team.

He throws himself onto my bed. “What you’re essentially saying is that if your roommate is a great chick, fun to hang out with, totally normal, then she’s off limits. If she’s burn-the-bunny crazy, though, she’s all mine.

I was the one the left. I tuck my phone away, place my hands on my thighs, and lean over to catch my breath. I wonder if this is how the Hulk feels before he goes green. My heart races, my palms sweat, and I feel like I’m coming out of my skin.

The panic was blamed on many factors—tight money, Roosevelt’s Gridiron Club speech attacking the “malefactors of great wealth,” and excessive speculation in copper, mining, and railroad stocks. The immediate weakness arose from the recklessness of the trust companies. In the early 1900s, national and most state-chartered banks couldn’t take trust accounts (wills, estates, and so on) but directed customers to trusts. Traditionally, these had been synonymous with safe investment. By 1907, however, they had exploited enough legal loopholes to become highly speculative. To draw money for risky ventures, they paid exorbitant interest rates, and trust executives operated like stock market plungers. They loaned out so much against stocks and bonds that by October 1907 as much as half the bank loans in New York were backed by securities as collateral—an extremely shaky base for the system. The trusts also didn’t keep the high cash reserves of commercial banks and were vulnerable to sudden runs.

I would have swallowed,” she says in a slightly piqued tone. “I know, Goldie.” I sigh. I pull off my own T-shirt and regretfully wipe off the come. “But I don’t know what the carb content of my stuff is, and I didn’t want to fuck up your glucose measurements.

I don’t know either,” I tell him honestly. “But if you are, I think I need to go to church tomorrow, because that means impossible things exist like unicorns and the resurrection.” He laughs then, a wide mouthed, white teeth flashing. “Tomorrow’s Friday.” I nod. “I know, but it can’t ever be too early to repent.

America can still point to individual rags-to-riches stories of self-made men and women who leapfrog to success. But for all the glitz of sudden stardom on American Idol, for all the hoop stars and gridiron heroes from the inner city, and for every surprise Wall Street billionaire, the unpleasant truth is that a typical child born at the bottom of the heap in America has far less chance of rising into the middle class or above than one born in France, Germany, or Scandinavia. In fact, one study found that it would take five or six generations, 125 to 150 years, for a child from America’s poverty caste to rise to the middle of the middle class.

Masters: Situation appears dire. Look around. Do you see any adults? Me: My ball size indicates I’m the adultest thing here. Me: I haven’t been rejected this hard since I tried to block the punt in that game against OSU last semester. Masters: My wife says rejection is good for you. Makes you mentally tough. Me: You love saying that phrase “my wife.” Masters: You bet your fat ass I do. Me: You don’t think it’s completely strange that you’re 21 and acting like a Taylor Swift song? Masters: Bro, sorry you feel left out. Stop by later and I’ll give you a hug. Me: Fuck off. Masters: I have MY WIFE to do that for me. Thanks, though. Hug still stands. I’ll even let you smell me. MY WIFE says I smell delicious. Me: I’ve smelled you before, which is why I’m not sure how you convinced Ellie to marry you. She must have defective olfactory senses. Masters: Me and MY defective WIFE will be getting it on tonight. While u have only Rosie Palm. Me: Don’t worry. I get plenty of variety. Left-hand Laura sometimes steps in. Masters: Heard you were out with Josie Weeks. Be careful. She eats little linebackers like you for breakfast. And the fact that I don’t even want to make a sexually charged comeback tells me exactly how I feel about Josie. Hope she doesn’t mind being just study partners.

These haymeadow days were the Arcadian age for marsh dwellers. Man and beast, plant and soil lived on and with each other in mutual toleration, to the mutual benefit of all. The marsh might have kept on producing hay and prairie chickens, deer and muskrat, crane-music and cranberries forever. The new overlords did not understand this. They did not include soil, plants, or birds in their ideas of mutuality. The dividends of such a balanced economy were too modest. They envisaged farms not only around, but in the marsh. An epidemic of ditch-digging and land-booming set in. The marsh was gridironed with drainage canals, speckled with new fields and farmsteads.

We aren’t even seeing the other side of the world; that’s our complaint,” said Adela. Mrs. Moore agreed; she too was disappointed at the dullness of their new life. They had made such a romantic voyage across the Mediterranean and through the sands of Egypt to the harbour of Bombay, to find only a gridiron of bungalows at the end of it. But she did not take the disappointment as seriously as Miss Quested, for the reason that she was forty years older, and had learnt that Life never gives us what we want at the moment that we consider appropriate. Adventures do occur, but not punctually. She said again that she hoped that something interesting would be arranged for next Tuesday.

Only last Sunday, when poor wretches were gay—within the walls playing with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace Garden; walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whiles filtering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady to say a word or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty little gridiron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassing Paris with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking, tomb-visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and much murderous refuse, animate and inanimate—only last Sunday, my Lady, in the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant Despair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits. She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul lies before her, as it lies behind—her Ariel has put a girdle of it round the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped—but the imperfect remedy is always to fly from the last place where it has been experienced. Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! And, when next beheld, let it be some leagues away, with the Gate of the Star a white speck glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain—two dark square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending on it aslant, like the angels in Jacob's dream!

Fear grid-irons your broken, suffering heart with strength, encasing it with a protective, tough shell. One that soon becomes a prison that will emaciate the unused, enclosed heart inside if left to its own accord. But renewed hope gently unwraps the hard cast, and replaces it with a more resilient, pliable layer, protective, strong, but permeable so as to let love soak in and nurture the malnourished, dying heart inside.

birthday”, seem to automatically raise their prices by something

Jersey chasers are a dime a dozen, always willing to take a ride on the football side, but you’ve got to be careful with the overly eager ones, the ones who aren’t just trying to make a trophy outta you, but a fuckin’ Lifetime Achievement award. As in, poking holes in condoms and look at that, you’re a baby daddy. I don’t know if Josie falls into that latter category, but she’s a little too eager for my taste.

Hammer: Where are u? The chicks at the Gas Station are so hot tonight. It’s like winter doesn’t exist for them. God bless band-aid dresses. Me: Bandage. Hammer: Same thing. Where are u?! Do you think the Christmas break makes these Western girls hotter? I don’t remember them being so fine last semester. Me: How much have u had to drink? It’s only 8. Hammer: Where are u?

I sigh. “You’re like a really expensive designer purse. I want it but know a) I can’t afford it and b) even if I could I’d be so obsessive about checking the condition that I wouldn’t even enjoy it. Plus, everyone else would want to touch it, hold it. Someone might even want to steal it, and that’d be a certain kind of stress I wouldn’t want to deal with.

And seriously, when did I become the omelet chef in this scenario? I’m not sure I even want to be captain, dammit. Responsibility makes the back of my neck itch. I’d much rather be one of the happy, oblivious sheep than the stressed-out shepherd who has to guide them.

Kinky sick fucks doing their kinky sick fuck shit.

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Breathing? I don’t think any woman is having an orgasm even if I gusted tornado winds into her pussy.” “Not with that attitude you won’t.

Decide right now. Am I in charge?

But tonight was all about getting my needs taken care of for the first time ever with a man. In and out.

Where’s Ben?” she asked after another painful swallow. The angle of the light in the room signaled morning. She’d survived the first horrible night of the illness. That was something for which to be grateful. “He didn’t want to go. But your mama kicked him out yesterday.” Phoebe bounded to the hearth fire and removed another pot of steaming water she had dangling from a gridiron that belonged to the kitchen. Susanna fought a wave of dizziness and frustration. “But don’t you worry none.” Phoebe returned to the bedside with the steaming pot, the scent of sassafras and rum drifting under the canopy of her bed. “It’s gonna take a pack of wolves to keep that man from coming back to see you.

he’d prefer we called him instead of sneaking one out of Kroger’s under our workout gear.

I shut my eyes and let myself drift back to Australia, the warm sun, the tropical nights, and the huge fruit bats flying across star-studded skies. Once again, the jangle of the phone jolted me upright. Not again! Now what did she want? Reluctantly I picked up the receiver. “G’day, mate,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “It’s Stevo calling from Australia. How you going?” Well, for starters, I was going without breathing for a few moments. “Good,” I stammered. Luckily, I didn’t have to talk, because Steve started right in on what was going on with the zoo. “The weather is heating up and the crocs will be laying soon,” he said, and I could barely hear him over the pounding of my heart. “I’ve got a chance to take a little time before summer hits,” he added. I waited for what seemed like a long beat, still breathless. “I’m coming to Oregon in ten days,” he said. “I’d really love to see you.” Yes! I was floored. Ten days. That would be…Thanksgiving. “Steve,” I said, “do you know about the American holiday of Thanksgiving?” “Too right,” he said cheerfully, but it was obvious that he didn’t. “We all get together as a family,” I explained. “We eat our brains out and take walks and watch a lot of football--American football, you know, gridiron, not your rugby league football.” I was babbling. “Do you want to come and share Thanksgiving with my family?” Steve didn’t seem to notice my fumbling tongue. “I’d be happy to,” he answered. “That’d be brilliant.” “Great,” I said. “Great,” he said. “Send me all the details, your flight and everything,” I said. “I will,” he promised. Then he hung up. As suddenly as he was there, he was gone. I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time that night, trying to convince myself that it hadn’t been a dream. Steve had called, and now he was coming to see me. This was going to be fabulous.

The great quarterbacks in future years will have to run as well as pass to survive pro lines, which seem to get rougher and faster every season. The defense places a greater emphasis on rushing the passer….The new development in pro football, therefore, will have to be the running quarterback.

The hollow knock of boot heels against the wooden porch catches up with me. Low and behold, I have company. “Stella.” “I can’t do this.” Without a pause, I cross the gravel driveway on my way to the barn. “I feel gross lying to your father. I’m mortified of what he’ll think of me if he ever finds out. I should go back to New York.” “You’re calling an audible now?!” My feet skid to a stop, kicking up dust. Pivoting, I direct my confusion at the man who spoke. “In English would be good. Spanish works too.” “You can’t leave me. Band of brothers!” “What? What are you talking about?” “We’re a team. No man left behind!” “You’re getting weirder by the second. First, we’re not on the gridiron. And second, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, it’s no child left behind. And you are no child––most of the time.” I mutter the last part, though judging by the v between his brows he heard me all the same. “Birds of a feather stick together?

An inventory of the items in the kitchen of Richard Toky, a member of the prosperous Grocers’ Company, in 1391 gives some idea of fourteenth-century kitchen equipment. It included: for food preparation – two mortars and two pestles, two meat-hooks, two pairs of tongs, two axes and two hatchets, four ‘tables’ [abacuses: calculators], a ‘dressing-knife’, a skimmer, two ladles, and a kneading tub for cooking – three brass pots, two little pans, two frying pans, one chafing pan [used over a charcoal fire for small, delicate dishes], two kettles, four copper pans, three iron spits and a rack, two grid-irons for grilling, two tripods, a grate, a bellows, and some wood and coal for laundry – a water-tankard [the kind of big hod used to deliver water to the household by the tankard-bearer], two washing tubs and a barrel.

Emotional extremes,” I clarify, trying to articulate who my sister was. “She couldn’t deal with the really awful stuff, or the really good stuff, if that makes sense. Like, one Christmas, Daddy and Momma got her the pink bike with the yellow basket that she was talking about for a whole year. She was ecstatic, Ace. I’m talking over-the-moon, pure joy, best-day-in-her-entire-life kind of happiness. And instead of jumping on the bike and riding it up and down the street, she spent all of Christmas Day sobbing in her bedroom.

No team had played a tougher schedule, or played more entertaining ball, or traveled more, and it was about this time that newspapers started calling Carlisle ‘Nomads of the Gridiron.

Exhibit a ferocious and intelligently applied work ethic directed at continual improvement. Demonstrate respect for each person in the organization. Be deeply committed to learning and teaching. Be fair. Demonstrate character. Honor the direct connection between details and improvement; relentlessly seek the latter. Show self-control, especially under pressure. Demonstrate and prize loyalty. Use positive language and have a positive attitude. Take pride in my effort as an entity separate from the result of that effort. Be willing to go the extra distance for the organization. Deal appropriately with victory and defeat, adulation and humiliation. Promote internal communication that is both open and substantive. Seek poise in myself and those I lead. Put the team’s welfare and priorities ahead of my own. Maintain an ongoing level of concentration and focus that is abnormally high. Make sacrifice and commitment the organization’s trademark.

New Yorkers suffered from what a modern psychologist would label a poor self-image. New Yorkers who cared about such matters, and who had visited such European cities as London, Paris and Rome, were the first to admit that New York was becoming a not very pretty city and disparaged (according to a contemporary account) “this cramped horizontal gridiron of a town without … porticoes, fountains or perspectives, hide-bound in its deadly uniformity of mean ugliness.

My heart pounds against the thin wall of my chest and I fear it will burst out.

I think the reward of you is worth the risk.

In the early 1870s Feltman, a German immigrant, had opened a shanty stand at the beach and begun selling clam roasts, ice cream, lager beer, and what Harper’s would call a “weird-looking sausage, muffled up in the two halves of a roll and smoking hot from the vender’s grid-iron.

game.

football.

Think of me as your coach. I’m encouraging you to play big. I’ve taken hits on and off the field and broken barrier after barrier after barrier—a living testament to the fact that it can be done. I want you to do the same. There’s simply no stopping you. My hope is that by the end of this book, you’ll be inspired to dream the unimaginable. You’ll be unstuck from whatever is holding you back from getting out there and changing the world, your world or the world of someone you know and care about. From doing something you never thought doable. From blazing a trail not yet taken. I followed my dream without having a role model; there was no path to follow, no inkling that making it to the biggest stage in sport could happen for a woman. My point: you never know what’s out there to go for until it’s out there to go for. Remember that, too. In my gridiron journey, there was no certainty, only hope and a belief in something bigger. There was no way to envision myself in any of the places that I ultimately busted through because, as a woman, it was unimaginable.

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.

Only you can make it to the Rose Bowl.

Standing out from the (New York City) map's delicate tracery of gridirons representing streets are heavy lines, lines girdling the city or slashing across its expanses. These lines denote the major roads on which automobiles and trucks move, roads whose very location, moreover, does as much as any single factor to determine where and how a city's people live and work. With a single exception, the East River Drive, Robert Moses built every one of those roads. (...) Only one borough of New York City—the Bronx—is on the mainland of the United States, and bridges link the island boroughs that form metropolis. Since 1931, seven such bridges were built, immense structures, some of them anchored by towers as tall as seventy-story buildings, supported by cables made up of enough wire to drop a noose around the earth. (...) Robert Moses built every one of those bridges. (He also built) Lincoln Center, the world's most famous, costly and imposing cultural complex. Alongside another stands the New York Coliseum, the glowering exhibition tower whose name reveals Moses' preoccupation with achieving an immortality like that conferred on the Caesars of Rome. The eastern edge of Manhattan Island, heart of metropolis, was completely altered between 1945 and 1958. (...) Robert Moses was never a member of the Housing Authority and his relationship with it was only hinted at in the press. But between 1945 and 1958 no site for public housing was selected and no brick of a public housing project laid without his approval. And still further north along the East River stand the buildings of the United Nations headquarters. Moses cleared aside the obstacles to bringing to New York the closest thing to a world capitol the planet possesses, and he supervised its construction. When Robert Moses began building playgrounds in New York City, there were 119. When he stopped, there were 777. Under his direction, an army of men that at times during the Depression included 84,000 laborers. (...) For the seven years between 1946 and 1953, no public improvement of any type—not school or sewer, library or pier, hospital or catch basin—was built by any city agency, even those which Robert Moses did not directly control, unless Moses approved its design and location. To clear the land for these improvements, he evicted the city's people, not thousands of them or tens of thousands but hundreds of thousands, from their homes and tore the homes down. Neighborhoods were obliterated by his edict to make room for new neighborhoods reared at his command. “Out from the heart of New York, reaching beyond the limits of the city into its vast suburbs and thereby shaping them as well as the city, stretch long ribbons of concrete, closed, unlike the expressways, to trucks and all commercial traffic, and, unlike the expressways, bordered by lawns and trees. These are the parkways. There are 416 miles of them. Robert Moses built every mile. (He also built the St. Lawrence Dam,) one of the most colossal single works of man, a structure of steel and concrete as tall as a ten-story apartment house, an apartment house as long as eleven football fields, a structure vaster by far than any of the pyramids, or, in terms of bulk, of any six pyramids together. And at Niagara, Robert Moses built a series of dams, parks and parkways that make the St. Lawrence development look small. His power was measured in decades. On April 18, 1924, ten years after he had entered government, it was formally handed to him. For forty-four years thereafter (until 1968), he held power, a power so substantial that in the field s in which he chose to exercise it, it was not challenged seriously by any (of 6) Governors of New York State or by any Mayor of New York City.

If you are good," he said, "and if you are thoughtful, a fractured pelvis on the gridiron will pain you less than a life of engineering and management. In that life, believe me, the thoughtful, the sensitive, those who can recognize the ridiculous, die a thousand deaths.

White-gloved footmen would bring out marvelous dishes... platters heaped with succulent red-and-white shrimp, called pandles by locals, still smoking-hot from the gridiron... tureens of bisque sprinkled with tender shreds of Chichester lobster... Amberley trout spangled with toast almond slices, served directly from the pan onto the plates. There were endless varieties of fresh vegetables, and salads chopped as fine as confetti, and bread served with newly churned butter, and platters of local cheese and hothouse fruit for dessert.

The vast majority - 98.4 percent - of college football players in the U.S. with aspirations to play professional football never get that opportunity.

as a player you win once but when you win as a coach, you win...forty times.

The man who is inflamed with the fire of divine love is as indifferent to glory and ignominy as if he were alone and unseen on this earth. He spurns all temptations. He is no more troubled by pincers, gridirons, or racks than if these sufferings were endured in a body other than his own.

If the gridiron of a football field were a timeline of the universe, with the Big Bang at one end and this moment at the other, then all of human recorded history would span the thickness of a blade of grass in the end zone.

Bert Wilson, with titles including: Bert Wilson at the Wheel (1913), Bert Wilson's Fadeaway Ball (1913), Bert Wilson, Wireless Operator (1913), Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner (1914), Bert Wilson at Panama (1914), Bert Wilson's Twin Cylinder Racer (1914), Bert Wilson on the Gridiron (1914) and Bert Wilson in the Rockies (1914). In the early twentieth century he wrote approximately 115 stories for the Stratemeyer Syndicate, writing for series including the Radio Boys, the Rushton Boys, Bobby Blake, Bomba the Jungle Boy, Don Sturdy, Baseball Joe and the Ted Scott series.

And after the hit on the gridiron his filter had been vastly reduced, so it was even harder for him not to always tell the literal truth. He instinctively craved precision and was reluctant to accept anything less than that.

The passing exhibition by Dorais and Rockne became a thing of lore. “Dorais and Rockne did not originate the forward pass any more than Tinker, Evers and Chance invented the double play,” wrote longtime sportswriter Jimmy Powers. “But, their uncanny skill with the weapon in a major game linked them inseparably with the aerial attack.

Clem Doyle, a standout education attorney, combines his experience with a gridiron past. Playing football at Princeton and Clarke Central HS laid the foundation for his dynamic legal career.

When she smiled, it tilted the axis of my whole world

Driving University: Listen to audio books or financial news radio while stuck in traffic. Traffic nuisances transformed to education. Exercise University: Absorb books, podcasts, and magazines while exercising at the gym. In between sets, on the treadmill, or on the stationary bike, exercise is transformed to education. Waiting University: Bring something to read with you when you anticipate a painful wait: Airports, doctor’s offices, and your state’s brutal motor vehicle department. Don’t sit there and twiddle your thumbs—learn! Toilet University: Never throne without reading something of educational value. Extend your “sit time” (even after you finish) with the intent of learning something new, every single day. Toilet University is the best place to change your oil, since it occurs daily and the time expenditure cannot be avoided. This means the return on your time investment is infinite! Toilet time transformed to education. Jobbing University: If you can, read during work downtimes. During my dead-job employment (driving limos, pizza delivery) I enjoyed significant “wait times” between jobs. While I waited for passengers, pizzas, and flower orders, I read. I didn’t sit around playing pocket-poker; no, I read. If you can exploit dead time during your job, you are getting paid to learn. Dead-end jobs transformed to education. TV-Time University: Can’t wean yourself off the TV? No problem; put a television near your workspace and simultaneously work your Fastlane plan while the TV does its thing. While watching countless reruns of Star Trek, boldly going where no man has gone before, I simultaneously learned how to program websites. In fact, as I write this, I am watching the New Orleans Saints pummel the New England Patriots on Monday Night Football. Gridiron gluttony transformed to work and education.

women have all the personality of taller women condensed into one little package, so you end up with a more concentrated force of nature.

Unlike those saints who are iconically associated with one distinct object— Sebastian with his arrows, Lawrence and his gridiron— Anthony is associated with plethora itself, with a multitude that can take any shape. Thus, it is his story that becomes paramount, and the beasts that surround him, with their increasing strangeness, give expression to a world in flux— our world.

Brother, I’m sorry you had to watch me maul your sister, I apologize silently, but it was either kiss her in front of everyone or piss on her leg.

He’s funny, able to laugh at himself, and…shit, hot as the fires of Mordor. I mean, the One Ring could be forged in his hotness.

The painting now hangs in the gallery at the Old Royal Observatory. It shows Harrison as a man to be reckoned with. Dressed in a chocolate brown frock coat and britches, he sits surrounded by his inventions, including H-3 at his right and the precision gridiron-pendulum regulator, which he built to rate his other timepieces, behind him. Even seated he assumes an erect bearing and a look of self-satisfied, but not smug, accomplishment. He wears a gentleman’s white wig and has the clearest, smoothest skin imaginable. (The story of Harrison’s becoming fascinated with watch-works in childhood, while recuperating from an illness, holds that he suffered a severe case of smallpox at the time. We must conclude, however, that the tale is tall, or that he experienced a miraculous recovery, or that the artist has painted out the scars.)

the Man with the Muckrake, the man who could look no way but downward with muckrake in his hand; who was offered a celestial crown for his muckrake but who would neither look up nor regard the crown he was offered but continued to rake to himself the filth of the floor. Roosevelt’s subsequent remarks about “a certain magazine” that he had just read “with great indignation” could not be reported, due to the Gridiron’s tradition of confidentiality. He spoke for nearly three quarters of an hour over a white, twelve-foot model of the Capitol, glowing with internal lights. According to one member of the audience, he “sizzled” with moral disdain. Since his listeners represented all of official Washington, and since The Cosmopolitan had just published another installment of “The Treason of the Senate,” it was not long before the Man with the Muckrake was identified as David Graham Phillips. Nor was it long before the Man became plural—denoting all writers of Phillips’s type—and the noun a verb, as in muckrakers, muckraking, to muckrake. A new buzzword was born. Ray Stannard Baker reacted to it as if stung. Opprobrium cast on all investigative journalists, he wrote Roosevelt, might discourage the honest ones, leaving the field to “outright ranters and inciters.” Roosevelt’s reply indicated a determination to give the Gridiron speech again, in some more public forum. “People so persistently misunderstand what I said that I want to have it reported in full.