Hockey Famous Quotes

Leo cried, "Hold on! Let's have some manners here. Can I at least find out who has the honor of destroying me?" "I am Cal!" the ox grunted. He looked very proud of himself, like he'd taken a long time to memorize that sentence. "That's short for Calais," the love god said. "Sadly, my brother cannot say words with more than two syllables--" "Pizza! Hockey! Destroy!" Cal offered. "--which includes his own name," the love god finished. "I am Cal," Cal repeated. "And this is Zethes! My brother!" "Wow," Leo said. "That was almost three sentences, man! Way to go." Cal grunted, obviously pleased with himself. "Stupid buffoon," his brother grumbled. "They make fun of you. But no matter. I am Zethes, which is short for Zethes. And the lady there--" He winked at piper, but the wink was more like a facial seizure. "She can call me anything she likes. Perhaps she would like to have dinner with a famous demigod before we must destroy you?

Better skedaddle, Gisele, before you piss off Garrett Graham.” I skate over to Ryder, playing dumb. “Garrett who?” “Are you shitting me right now? You don’t know who Garrett Graham is?” “Is he famous or something?” Ryder stares at me. “He’s hockey royalty. This is his camp.” “Oh. Yeah. I only follow figure skaters.

It’s as hard to be the shadow as it is to be the light, Alex.” There’s some real insight in that. “When did you grow up?” She laughs again and hugs my arm. “While you were off playing hockey and getting famous.

The men were famous once. Some of them still are. They were the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team and Brooks had brought them together, 24 summers before. He had picked them and provoked them and pushed them, sometimes irritating them and often infuriating them by his hardness and his aloofness, his scathing rebukes and his unrelenting mind games.

Look, no one wants to hear that maybe she’s the reason her mother flew the coop. But my advice to you is to put this behind you. File it away in the drawer that’s saved for all the other crap that isn’t fair, like how the Kardashians are famous and how good-looking people get served faster at restaurants and how a kid who can’t skate to save his life winds up on the varsity hockey team because his dad is the coach.

The sociologist Robert Merton famously called this phenomenon the “Matthew Effect”after the New Testament verse in the Gospel of Matthew: “For unto everyone that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance. But from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.”It is those who are successful, in other words, who are most likely to be given the kinds of special opportunities that lead to further success. It’s the rich who get the biggest tax breaks. It’s the best students who get the best teaching and most attention. And it’s the biggest nine- and ten-year-olds who get the most coaching and practice. Success is the result of what sociologists like to call “accumulative advantage.”The professional hockey player starts out a little bit better than his peers.

He found that when the Montreal Canadiens ice hockey team—once described as the national team of French Canada—got knocked out of the playoffs early between 1951 and 1992, Quebecois males aged fifteen to thirty-four became more likely to kill themselves. Robert Fernquist, a sociologist at the University of Central Missouri, went further. He studied thirty American metropolitan areas with professional sports teams from 1971 to 1990 and showed that fewer suicides occurred in cities whose teams made the playoffs more often. Routinely reaching the playoffs could reduce suicides by about twenty each year in a metropolitan area the size of Boston or Atlanta, said Fernquist. These saved lives were the converse of the mythical Brazilians throwing themselves off apartment blocks. Later, Fernquist investigated another link between sports and suicide: he looked at the suicide rate in American cities after a local sports team moved to another town. It turned out that some of the fans abandoned by their team killed themselves. This happened in New York in 1957 when the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants baseball teams left, in Cleveland in 1995–1996 when the Browns football team moved to Baltimore, and in Houston in 1997–1998 when the Oilers football team departed. In each case the suicide rate was 10 percent to 14 percent higher in the two months around the team’s departure than in the same months of the previous year. Each move probably helped prompt a handful of suicides. Fernquist wrote, “The sudden change brought about due to the geographic relocations of pro sports teams does appear to, at least for a short time, make highly identified fans drastically change the way they view the normative order in society.” Clearly none of these people killed themselves just because they lost their team. Rather, they were very troubled individuals for whom this sporting disappointment was too much to bear. Perhaps the most famous recent case of a man who found he could not live without sports was the Gonzo author Hunter S. Thompson. He shot himself in February 2005, four days after writing a note in black marker with the title, “Football Season Is Over”:

Montreal was the location of ice hockey’s first formal game (1875), its first published rules (1877), its first official club (1877), its first major tournament (1883), its first intercity league (1886) and its first national champion (1893).11 That occurred when the reigning governor general, Lord Frederick Stanley of Preston, presented his famous Cup, and a five-team league—three of which were from Montreal—settled on its winner.12 For much of this time, hockey as an organized sport had been marginal and largely unknown in Toronto.

To falling in love in unexpected places. Or with an unexpected person.

Garrett who?” “Are you shitting me right now? You don’t know who Garrett Graham is?” “Is he famous or something?” Ryder stares at me. “He’s hockey royalty. This is his camp.” “Oh. Yeah. I only follow figure skaters.

I like Steele. He’s lovely and funny, and he gets how weird I am. Plus, he’s hot.” “And a famous hockey player and a giant. Bet his ding-a-ling is as big as his hockey stick.” “Doubtful, but I bet it’s close.

Hockey is a game that can be classified as field or ice. In ice hockey, the playing field is ice. In field hockey, grassy plains or artificial structures are used. Two teams use their sticks to hit a puck across the field and into a goal. This is a popular game that is played in many countries and its most famous athlete is Wayne Gretzky,

Did you eat any of those dough things they’re famous for?” A small moan escapes. “Yes. Best thing ever. Better than sex.” I slap a hand over my mouth and stare at him wide eyed. Maybe he didn’t catch the s-word? The surprise turns into a smirk. “You must not have been with the right guy if you think a fried ball of dough is better than sex.” “And I suppose you think you’re the right guy?” “I’ve never had any complaints.” Right, because he’s a player. “Like they’d complain when they snag the hot shit hockey player.” “Hey, I take offense. I always leave the ladies satisfied.” “And how do you know that?” “Want me to prove it to you?

Mess up all my plans, Harlow. Because I don’t want to be part of any plans unless they include you. I need you in my life, for anything to mean something. When I play in my first pro game, I want you to be behind the bench wearing my jersey. If you’re not, it’ll just be another hockey game.

Neon signs illuminate the windows and old license plates decorate the walls, along with paper bills of various currencies and the occasional signed sports jersey. I only recognize one—Jasper Gervais, a famous hockey player.

I only recognize one—Jasper Gervais, a famous hockey player.

Athletes in general possess a relatively enlightened understanding of failure’s relationship to success. As Canadian ice hockey superstar Wayne Gretzky famously said, “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.

attention

She’s my half-brother’s best friend.

Congrats on the win, Hart. If you’d passed to Powers at the start of the third, it would have been 5-2.

No, I wanted you to say ‘Hi, Harlow,’ and keep walking.” His exhale is exasperated. “Fine. The next time I see you out with him, I’ll say ‘Hi, Harlow,’ and keep walking. Okay?” “I’m not going out with him again.” “Why not?” “I’m just not. I’ll see you later.” I turn to head back into the hall—to leave—but Conor’s reflexes are way faster than mine. He grabs my arm, holding me in place. “I want to help you, Harlow. And it’s not pity, but especially now that I know…” He swallows. “Let me help you train. Please.” “It’s a bad idea.” Conor is still holding my arm, which I don’t think he’s aware of but I certainly am. I can feel his touch, even through the layers of down. “What’s a bad idea?” “Us spending time together.” “Why? Because of the Garrisons?” I shake my head, although it’s certainly a complication. Landon would lose his shit if he knew I was standing in Conor Hart’s kitchen right now. “Then what?” “Because…” I like you. I like you more than I’ve ever liked a guy, and that’s terrifying. “Because I want to have sex with you.” Once it’s out, I can’t take it back. And I’m not sure if it’s better or worse than admitting my crush. Conor’s shocked reaction is almost worth the mortifying realization I said that to him.

He kisses me.

He sets the Gatorade down and strides toward me. “Wait, hold up. I’ll still help you with training, when I can. I jog most mornings anyway.” “That’s not necessary. I’ll just walk the marathon if I have to.” Conor shakes his head. “What is it with you and this damn marathon? Just drop out of it, Harlow.” “I can’t.” “Why?” “Because it’s being run in my hometown in memory of my parents.” Conor exhales. “Why didn’t you just tell me that?” “I’m sick of people feeling sorry for me. I didn’t want your help because I’m an orphan and you pitied me.

What the hell, Hayes? You show up here mad I’m not training you and now—” “That’s not why I was mad. I was mad because you ignored me earlier, and I thought we were past all that.” “You were out with another guy! You wanted me to interrogate him or something?

We remember the famous curve in the shape of a hockey stick… However, no serious scientist still gives it the least credit.

famous peak performance coach, used a version of it to propel the Los Angeles Kings hockey team to a stunning

meet their goal of 80 percent renewable energy by 2050.12 While not having children is definitively the best choice for the environment, it is not the choice that many environmentalists make, however. Paul Ehrlich, author of The Population Bomb, has one child, as does Bill McKibben, who has energized a generation of young climate activists, and Michael Mann, the climate scientist behind the famous “hockey stick” figure showing rapid global warming. As my husband and I were trying to decide whether to have a child or not, I could not help but look at the choices that those around me had made.

If mutual decimation of the McLaughlins and the McLeans marked the end of Charlestown’s “gangster era,” a host of gangs endured in the Town. These were less criminal bands than expressions of territorial allegiance. Every street and alley, every park and pier had its own ragged troop which hung on the corner, played football, baseball, and street hockey, and defended its turf against all comers. The Wildcats hung at the corner of Frothingham and Lincoln streets, the Bearcats at Walker and Russell streets, the Falcons outside the Edwards School, the Cobras on Elm Street, the Jokers in Hayes Square, the Highlanders on High Street, the Crusaders at the Training Field. Each had its distinctive football jersey (on which members wore their street addresses), its own legends and traditions. The Highlanders, for example, took their identity from the Bunker Hill Monument, which towered over their hangout at the top of Monument Avenue. On weekends and summer afternoons, they gathered there to wait for out-of-town tourists visiting the revolutionary battleground. When one approached, an eager boy would step forward and launch his spiel, learned by rote from other Highlanders: “The Monument is 221 feet high, has 294 winding stairs and no elevators. They say the quickest way up is to walk, the quickest way down is to fall. The Monument is fifteen feet square. Its cornerstone was laid in 1825 by Daniel Webster. The statue you see in the foreground is that of Colonel William Prescott standing in the same position as when he gave that brave and famous command, ‘Don’t fire till you see the whites of their eyes.’ The British made three attempts to gain the hill …” And so forth. An engaging raconteur could parlay this patter into a fifty-cent tip.

What about you? Why aren’t you drinking?” “I don’t drink during the season,” Conor tells me. “And even if I did…I wouldn’t tonight.” “Why not?” “You’re probably the last person I ever thought would be promoting drinking and driving, Hayes. If you’re in my car, I’ll be stone fucking sober.

And all I’m thinking about is how good it feels to have her look at me like that.