High School Quarterback Quotes

There are gods in Alabama: Jack Daniel's, high school quarterbacks, trucks, big tits, and also Jesus.

My nickname in high school was Catch 22. Not because I was a walking dilemma, but because I had 22 catches freshman year. The interesting part was that I didn’t play football, but that’s just how inaccurate our quarterback was.

The quarterback? Wow. My mom wouldn't let me stand in the same checkout line as a high school senior. She's so lame. She's not lame. She thinks eighteen year old boys are dangerous. She calls them penises with hands and feet. Tell me that isn't lame.

She's dating the school quarterback." "People date all the time. And they break up all the time." "Not these two," Meredith said with a snort. "Their love is epic. Everyone at school knows it. He gave up his philandering ways to be with his longtime childhood bestie." I finally glanced at her sideways. "They're in high school. High schoolers don't philander." "Jack Caputo does. Or did.

But for the rest of us, cool has a shelf life. If you’re a quarterback in high school, you’re cool. But ten years later, working as a sullen bouncer at the only nightclub in town, your “cool” is on life support. Which is why so many young girls who never said no end up with losers in pants hanging below their asses and no known income to speak of. These cads were charming in high school; now they’re as useless as shoulder pads on a snake.

A little boy, he can play like he's a fireman or a cop--although fewer and fewer are pretending to be cops, thank God--or a deep-sea diver or a quarterback or a spaceman or a rock 'n roll star or a cowboy, or anything else glamorous and exciting (Author's note: What about a novelist, Jellybean?), and although chances are by the time he's in high school he'll get channeled into safer, duller ambitions, the great truth is, he can be any of those things, realize any of those fantasies, if he has the strength, nerve and sincere desire...But little girls? Podner, you know that story as well as me. Give 'em doll babies, tea sets and toy stoves. And if they show a hankering for more bodacious playthings, call 'em tomboy, humor 'em for a few years and then slip 'em the bad news...And the reality is, we got about as much chance of growing up to be cowgirls as Eskimos have got being vegetarians.

only to reminisce about his high school career, which included a failed stint at quarterback. Finally, Parcells said, “We’re going to come

... entering a room like the star quarterback he was in high school and still waiting for a fucking applause.

We’re just the high school quarterback, talking about the touchdown pass he threw in ’72,” she said. “High school was everyone’s glory days. For us, high school is all tangled up in memories of our trauma. We have the same normal nostalgic inclinations as other people, but when we walk back in our minds to this supposedly wonderful time we have people trying to kill us. For us, nostalgia and violence are inextricably linked.

Why should we, the brains of the military, have so much anxiety about our contribution to the war that we feel we have to ape Special Forces guys? To Fitzgerald commandos were just glorified jocks - pitchers and quarterbacks from suburban high schools who traded baseballs for bullets. There's no doubt they had skills. They could slither right up to the enemy on their stomachs survive on worms for days and plunk a target with a piece of lead from a mile away. All very impressive. But they couldn't speak Arabic or juggle a million intelligence requirements and 703 follow-up questions from the community while sitting three feet away from some Islamic firebrand who has no reason to talk. "Do you think those Special Forces guys are wracked with Interrogator envy?" Fitzgerald would say. "You think they're over there in their special sunglasses polishing their special weapons saying 'man if only I could do some hot-shit interrogations and write some hot-shit reports?

He told himself that he was a clown clean through. Every time a fly ball had been hit to him with men on the bases, he'd muffed it. Hoping for one thing, then another, and when he did get his chances -- foul ball. Girls, too. He'd never held one. Twice Lucy had given him the cold shoulder. That girl he'd knelt next to at Christmas Mass in Saint Patrick's once -- cold shoulder. Never got beyond wishing with her. Now Catherine. Football. He'd wanted to be a star high-school quarterback and he'd not had the guts to stay in school. Fighting. His kid brother had even cleaned him up. In the war when he'd tried to enlist, a leather-necked sergeant had laughed at him. He was just an all-around no soap guy.

I’d like to extend a hearty fuck you to the national news media. This is for spending more time talking about my emails than all policy issues combined. . . . This is for constantly saying I “am flawed” or “have flaws” . . . motherfucker, name one!!! My fucking charity that gives HIV meds to poor people? Are you for real with this shit? And the Monday morning quarterbacks right now? You’re gonna criticize my campaign?? Bitch, I won the popular vote and I was running against America! Last toast: undecided voters . . . honey, if you were undecided after the Mexican rapist speech it means one thing: You needed me to be perfect. . . . You know, back in 1965, I ran for class president of my high school and lost to a boy who told me, “You are really stupid if you think a girl can be elected president.” Well, I put in fifty years of tireless, grueling work, and now, at long last, that little boy has been vindicated.

After graduating early from high school, I carefully listened to the quarterback during my first play in college spring ball. My mind was on the very basics of football: alignment, assignment, and where to stand in the huddle. The quarterback broke the huddle and I ran to the line, meeting the confident eyes of a defensive end—6-foot-6, 260- pound Matt Shaughnessy. I was seventeen, a true freshman, and he was a 23-year-old fifth-year senior, a third-round draft pick. Huge difference between the two of us. Impressing the coach was not on my mind. Survival was. “Oh, Jesus,” I said. I wasn’t cursing. I was praying for help. Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray ( James 5:13). That day Matt came off the ball so fast. Bam! Next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, thrown to the ground. I got up and limped back to the huddle. Four years later...standing on the sidelines in my first NFL game, bouncing on my toes, waiting for my chance to go in, one of the tight ends went down. My time to shine! Where do I stand? Who do I have? I look up and meet the same eyes I met on my first play in college football. Matt Shaughnessy! ...

He hadn't developed into the accomplished running quarterback many had predicted he would become over the course of the season. But he had come to personify this team. He was raw and untested when the season began, but he played his two best games in the two biggest games on the schedule. He wasn't the player anybody expected him to be, but he got the job done-at times spectacularly.

There are certain unwritten rules in high school. High on the list, close to the top, is one that says. ‘Thou shalt not have sex with your best friend’s girl’. - A simple rule, understood by all. - Danny Carrs totally ignored it. Another rule even higher on the list says: ‘Thou shalt not beat the crap out of the star quarterback two days before the play-off game.’ I sort of ignored that one. I figured it made us even. Needless to say, the jerks at school didn’t see it my way.

I was a nine-year-old baseball player for my hometown team, and I distinctly remember my coach telling me, “Walk it off … don’t sit down it will stiffen up … keep moving it.” I heard similar orders given to myself, teammates, and rivals more than one-hundred times during my childhood athletic career. Not once did I ever hear anyone suggest putting ice on damaged tissue. Indeed, even when I was the starting quarterback on my junior high-school’s football team, I never saw anyone iced or heard about anyone icing.

THERE ARE GODS in Alabama: Jack Daniel’s, high school quarterbacks, trucks, big tits, and also Jesus.

Lamar, Sr. began coaching his son at a young age, throwing the football with him and helping him get faster. By the age of eight, Lamar could outrun many high school track athletes.

She’s not giving up. “Well, I don’t know what they show you on Sock-Tok, or The Face Book these days, but—

Are you sure?” she asked. Soon thereafter she was clambering into the ever-intimidating sidesaddle and whispering, “Easy, there, donkey friend,” when Captain East appeared. “Going for a ride, Miss Erstwhile.” “Yes, and I wish you would come.” He had agreed before Amelia walked her horse into view. Captain East flinched but couldn’t back out now. Jane was determined to keep distant from the couple and have a little alone time with prince charming. Captain East didn’t make her heart patter, but he was beyond high school quarterback cute, and being fake-courted by him would make for an interesting vacation at the very least. Then, like a bumbling fool, Mr. Nobley kept letting his horse trot forward, separating Jane and Captain East, and leaving Amelia riding alone. Jane would correct it, and Mr. Nobley would mess it all up again. She glared. And still he didn’t get it. Then he was glaring, and she glared back the why-are-you-glaring-at-me glare, and his eyes were exasperated, and she was about to call him ridiculous, when he said, “Miss Erstwhile, you look flushed. Will you not rest for a moment? Do not trouble yourself, Captain East, you go on with Miss Heartwight and we will follow straightaway.” When the other two were out of hearing range, Jane turned her glare into words. “What are you doing? I’m just fine.” “Pardon, Miss Erstwhile, but I was trying to allow Captain East and Miss Heartwright a few moments alone. She confided in me about their troubled past, and I hoped time to talk would help ease the strain between them.” “Okay,” Jane laughed, “so I’m a little slow.” She knew she didn’t sound the least bit Austen-y, but for some reason she just couldn’t make herself try to approximate the dead dialect around Mr. Nobley.

The problem with crack dealing is the same as in every other glamour profession: a lot of people are competing for a very few prizes. Earning big money in the crack gang wasn’t much more likely than the Wisconsin farm girl becoming a movie star or the high-school quarterback playing in the NFL. But criminals, like everyone else, respond to incentives. So if the prize is big enough, they will form a line down the block just hoping for a chance. On the south side of Chicago, people wanting to sell crack vastly outnumbered the available street corners.

Now he laughs for real, cackling with the wicked innocence of the bright and easily bored. Staff Sergeant David Dime is a twenty-four-year-old college dropout from North Carolina who subscribes to the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, Maxim, Wired, Harper’s, Fortune, and DicE Magazine, all of which he reads in addition to three or four books a week, mostly used textbooks on history and politics that his insanely hot sister sends from Chapel Hill. There are stories that he went to college on a golf scholarship, which he denies. That he was a star quarterback in high school, which he claims not to remember, though one day a football surfaced at FOB Viper, and Dime, caught up in the moment, perhaps, nostalgia triggering some long-dormant muscle memory, uncorked a sixty-yard spiral that sailed over Day’s head into the base motor pool.

Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds.

...a campus of hollowed factories. In Vacca Vale, they haunt the sky and the birds with their remembrance of a supposedly better time, reliving their history over and over like a sad, drunk father who was once the high school quarterback.

Matt powers his Register-burdened Heavy-Duti south on Glenneyre, hitting his targets like a quarterback—the Raiders’ Daryle Lamonica maybe, his favorite—throwing four quick completions to the Heun, Parlett, Cabang, and Rigby houses before heading up Legion, around the high school, and onto Los Robles with four more completions, one of them a bomb to the very tough Murrel house, hidden behind a defensive front line of blooming bougainvillea.

Star prodigy quarterback. I had broken every high school record when I “suddenly” transferred into Belmont High for my senior year of high school.

Two weeks ago, my life was perfect. I lived in a nice house in a fancy Billings suburb, and I played quarterback for one of the best high school football teams in the state. My parents were together and, for all I knew, in love. And, I had a beautiful girlfriend by my side. Fast-forward fourteen days, and my life contains none of the above.

Um, er, um,” he mumbled before finding his voice, “I came for your advice.

At 6:15 the next morning I was woken to the sound of my phone alarm ringing. I reluctantly pushed back my quilt cover, urging myself to jump out from under the warm blankets. I reached for my hoodie at the end of my bed, getting my head stuck as I pulled it on.

Tanchia’s parents were a bit old fashioned, and strict, particularly her mother. Grades and homework were the most important things in life (Mrs. Goodwin could be heard shouting this if I was ever sitting out on our back porch), and last year, when Tanchia got a B for a math assignment, she’d been grounded for a month. I mean, it’s not like she had a social life anyway, but that’s why I’d sent her the rose. Because I’d seen her crying in her back yard, and I felt sorry for her. And I thought it might cheer her up.

General Hospital No. 2, a public hospital that served the Black working class and poor. The community held the hospital in high regard despite political corruption and racist policies stunting its development. Its all-Black administration and staff were a first for a municipal hospital in the United States, and the hospital’s training programs were nationally recognized. Around one-third to one-half of the country’s Black medical school graduates in the 1920s found internships in Kansas City and St. Louis.

(Page 91) LUKE JENNER: Julian Casablancas showed up one night to fight that dude, because he had said something derogatory about the Strokes. That guy was huge, like the high school quarterback. Jack White and Julian Casablancas, those dudes will fuck you up.

Hadl threw the ball just 204 times in three seasons at Kansas as a running back and quarterback, so it was a bit like going straight from high school to a post-graduate education. Gillman taught Hadl that if a defender was looking at the running back, it was man-to-man coverage.

It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, I can tell you that. Popularity goes hand in hand with pressure. It comes with expectations, heavy on your shoulders, day in and day out, and it just seems to get worse the more you win, the more you push.

Once again, she had been forced to flee for her life from Jenny Sommers (the popular girl in her school who always had the latest clothes in fashion, dated the star football quarterback in a clichéd high school romance, and had recently received a Lexus convertible for her birthday) and her friends, who were just as spoiled.

I hungered for the power of the all-American man, the Marlboro Man and the Marlboro Man's firstborn son, the high-school quarterback, the company's future CEO, Ernest Hemingway, John Wayne, Odysseus, Hercules, Achilles, the shield itself, the stone-cut archetype, the goddamned Everyman, the golden boy, the one.

I mean, he’s the most popular guy in school. Not to mention his dreamy looks combined with the fact that he’s the captain of the Broken Hill High football team and their quarterback makes him the guy that I’ve been crushing on for past twelve months. Though, I’m not some cheerleading bimbo who shakes her ass and waves pom poms through the air which naturally puts me out of the running for his attention. There are strict rules at Broken Hill High and if you’re caught straying, then you better watch out.

We like to think that men kill because they're men- it's as indiscriminate as their wont to procreate. The quarterbacks in the high school of life, men are given a wide berth for murder, as they are for most things.

He’s Zac Porter, the golden boy of Oakwood Bay. Quarterback of the high school football team, on the cusp of taking the field for the University of Oakwood Bay,