Junction Boys Quotes

The path to the three-way junction is one I’d take ten times over, no matter where it leads because loving Arianna Johnson is worth the risk. Being loved by her is priceless. The time was worth the torment.

When I was a boy in Laxmangarh, and I used to play with my father’s body, the junction of the neck and the chest, the place where all the tendons and veins stick out in high relief, was my favorite spot. When I touched this spot, the pit of my father’s neck, I controlled him - I could make him stop breathing with the pressure of a finger.

Listen, does your boy know how to work? Try to teach him to work, to sacrifice, to fight. He better learn now, because he’s going to have to do it some day. Lloyd Hale was a sophomore on that first team we took to Junction, and he asked me one time what I meant by “fight.” Well, I don’t mean fistfight, like we used to do back in Arkansas, I told him. I mean, some morning when you’ve been out of school twenty years and you wake up and your house has burned down and your mother is in the hospital and the kids are all sick and you’re overdrawn at the bank and your wife has run off with the drummer, what are you going to do? Throw in?

One evening in April a thirty-two-year-old woman, unconscious and severely injured, was admitted to the hospital in a provincial town south of Copenhagen. She had a concussion and internal bleeding, her legs and arms were broken in several places, and she had deep lesions in her face. A gas station attendant in a neighboring village, beside the bridge over the highway to Copenhagen, had seen her go the wrong way up the exit and drive at high speed into the oncoming traffic. The first three approaching cars managed to maneuver around her, but about 200 meters after the junction she collided head-on with a truck. The Dutch driver was admitted for observation but released the next day. According to his statement he started to brake a good 100 meters before the crash, while the car seemed to actually increase its speed over the last stretch. The front of the vehicle was totally crushed, part of the radiator was stuck between the road and the truck's bumper, and the woman had to be cut free. The spokesman for emergency services said it was a miracle she had survived. On arrival at the hospital the woman was in very critical condition, and it was twenty-four hours before she was out of serious danger. Her eyes were so badly damaged that she lost her sight. Her name was Lucca. Lucca Montale. Despite the name there was nothing particularly Italian about her appearance. She had auburn hair and green eyes in a narrow face with high cheek-bones. She was slim and fairly tall. It turned out she was Danish, born in Copenhagen. Her husband, Andreas Bark, arrived with their small son while she was still on the operating table. The couple's home was an isolated old farmhouse in the woods seven kilometers from the site of the accident. Andreas Bark told the police he had tried to stop his wife from driving. He thought she had just gone out for a breath of air when he heard the car start. By the time he got outside he saw it disappearing along the road. She had been drinking a lot. They had had a marital disagreement. Those were the words he used; he was not questioned further on that point. Early in the morning, when Lucca Montale was moved from the operating room into intensive care, her husband was still in the waiting room with the sleeping boy's head on his lap. He was looking out at the sky and the dark trees when Robert sat down next to him. Andreas Bark went on staring into the gray morning light with an exhausted, absent gaze. He seemed slightly younger than Robert, in his late thirties. He had dark, wavy hair and a prominent chin, his eyes were narrow and deep-set, and he was wearing a shabby leather jacket. Robert rested his hands on his knees in the green cotton trousers and looked down at the perforations in the leather uppers of his white clogs. He realized he had forgotten to take off his plastic cap after the operation. The thin plastic crackled between his hands. Andreas looked at him and Robert straightened up to meet his gaze. The boy woke.

a Coke and a ham sandwich, please.” “Anything on that? Wanna run it through the garden?” “Run it through the … ” Tess’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, you know. Lettuce, tomato, and onion. The works.” “Oh.” Tess shook her head. “Just mustard, please.” Willa Jean nodded and went toward the kitchen hollering, “Walking in! A Co’Cola and Noah’s boy on bread with Mississippi mud.

They didn’t know it, but the boy who crossed with them—his clothes, they thought, looked a bit muddy—was the ghost of Eduardito, the boy who had drowned. He wanted to warn them that there are junctions where the line joining the past to the present bends right around until it forms a hole. “If you fall down, you won’t come back,” he wanted to tell them. But, with all the adrenaline pumping through them, they didn’t stop to listen.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

When the taxi started back uptown the boys stood uncertainly for a moment on the sidewalk. Chatham Square was a junction point of several streets and alleys, all radiating out from its open

The path to the three-way junction is one I’d take ten times over, no matter where it leads because loving Arianna Johnson is worth the risk. Being loved by her is priceless.

The story of the Junction Boys has become a symbol for coaches and players everywhere. While harsh, the training camp was a rousing success. If you want to get the best out of a team, weed out the weak players and harden the remaining ones. Toughening up individuals was the secret to success. It’s a story that’s been memorialized in a bestselling book and an ESPN movie. It’s a story that we’ve held on to as the blueprint for creating toughness.

The same picket of urban cowboys met Troy at the lost junction of Cardigan Street and Waterloo Place. The same child’s stare, suspicious of any adult, met his greeting to the boys.

Ah, Love Lane,” Jerry said, pointing down towards the river as they crossed a road. “Did you know it comes to a junction with Cock Hill? I’d buy someone a pint for that.

The research is clear. The Junction Boys model of toughness that teaches us to ignore or suppress what we feel goes against how our brain and body actually work. The “power through” mantra makes sense only if you actually take stock of what you are powering through. That is what the old definition of grit got wrong. Feelings are signals that need to be understood. Pain isn’t something to fear or push our way through; it’s a message that needs interpretation. One that sometimes needs heeding, and other times can be allowed to pass by. And if we mistake a challenge for danger or nerves for a full-blown anxiety attack, it doesn’t matter how “tough” we are; we are headed straight toward a “freak-out.” The first step to toughness is training your body and mind to understand and interpret the signals you are receiving.