Later Gator Quotes

Later, gator." "In an hour, sunflower.

Superstition, as indigenous to Louisiana as gators and Tabasco, holds that the spirits of the dead avenge any disruption of their bodies, which makes one wonder at the rancor released on the 1957 day when fifty-five white families re-interred their beloved in Hope Mausoleum after the Rt. Rev. Girault M. Jones, Bishop of Louisiana, deconsecrated the Girod Street Cemetery, condemning every last African American bone to anonymity in a mass grave in Providence Memorial Park. From that pogrom grew the Superdome. Thirteen acres of structural steel framing stretch up to 273 feet from the unholy ground, a towering testament to the American propensity to cheer black men into the end zones and desert them entirely six points later.

Debriefing was a lot of bullshit. Sam wanted to leap out of his seat and go find his woman. He’d never actually had a woman to come home to, and now that he did, he had to sit like a kindergartener, wiggling around his chair, anxious to see her—inspect her—and make certain she didn’t have so much as a scratch on her. Fucking Whitney, attacking the compound when there were just a few men and women to defend it. She wasn’t hurt . . . “Sam, you with us?” Ryland asked. He wasn’t the only one with a wife. Ryland had to be just as anxious. His son had been a target. He scowled at Ryland. “He’s got ants in his pants.” Tucker snickered. He’s got somethin’ in his pants,” Gator mocked, shoving at Sam’s boot with his foot. “And I don’ think it’s ants.” “Go to hell,” Sam said good-naturedly. “Like all of you aren’t just as antsy.” Ryland sighed. “Our women fought off Whitney’s men while we were in the field. It’s getting a little old.” He looked at Sam. “Get out of here.” And I want a full briefing from her later. Sam’s nod was barely perceptible. He leapt out of the chair and rushed from the room, an arrow shot out of a bow. Laughter followed him, but he didn’t give a damn. Nothing mattered but to get to her. Azami. His.

That’s what led George to Yogi’s museum in New Jersey in 1999 to apologize in person. It’s the same feeling that led Yogi, a man who had vowed never to return to Yankee Stadium so long as George owned the team, to accept George’s apology. Together they made plans for a grand return, a Yogi Berra Day that July. Before the game, Don Larsen, the Yankees pitcher who threw the first perfect game in Yankees history, during the 1956 World Series with Yogi behind the plate, tossed the ceremonial first pitch to Yogi. A few hours later David Cone finished another perfect game, the third in the team’s history. As if we needed another sign that all was right in the world.

You have to tell him something. Tell him anything, or he won’t let you complete the game.” “Okay,” I told him. By not immediately bringing in a reliever, Billy seemed to be feeling me out. When he arrived moments later, he didn’t say “Good job” like he usually did. Instead, he asked: “Well, what do you think?” “You really wanna know what I think?” I said. “Yeah, I really wanna know.” “I think you oughtta get your ass off my mound so I can finish my damn game.” Billy looked at me for a moment. Then he said, “Okay, you got it.” And he went back

It said a lot about the choices you made in life when jogging actually lowered your heart rate. By

I will never understand a desire for a reckoning so strong that you burn down your own house to get it,

Get me in here. Get me in here now!" I order. I have to get out of the swamp before it happens again. But it does. I feel it before I see it. Dozens of thick, razor-sharp needles pierce my right leg, sinking into my skin. It hurts like nothing I've felt before, and a strangled scream of pain escapes me. Babette whips her head around, the motor forgotten. "Rylan! What is it!" "Get me out! GET ME OUT!" I scream. Fearfully, I look over my shoulder, but seconds later I wish I hadn't as the attacker comes to the surface. It has a scaly body, sharp claws, feral eyes, and a long, ugly, sneering snout that's clamped around my leg. Melanie identifies it with a shriek. "GATOR!

I kiss her forehead. “You know you’re the best, right?” I whisper. Billy points at us with a smirk. “I think I deserve some credit for you two happening.” Circling two fingers in the air a little too suggestively for my comfort, he adds, “Love is in the air…” He scoops up Roxy, flops onto the couch, and sits back with her on his lap. “Yeah, you’ll be on our Christmas list,” I deadpan. Roxy pats his cheek like he’s a misbehaving schoolboy and scoots off. “Please promise me y’all will put away the leftover pie.” Cam chuckles with a wink. “Darlin’, there won’t be any leftover pie.” She smiles and grabs her purse. “All righty. Later, gators. Love y’all.” Everyone yells out their thanks as she takes off. I glance down at Asher, wondering if the commotion will wake him, but he’s in a solid food coma. Billy watches her go, and after the front door shuts, I clear my throat. “Any progress with you and Roxy?” It’s

Don’t do anything you aren’t willing to defend later. Ultimately, I realized the story of Operation Alligator Thief came full circle back to the reason I started telling stories in the first place. It had the same moral as the stories my family told on our dock all those years ago: Who you are in the dark is your truest self.

Later, I would learn that the reason the conches and other shells were thinning was twofold. Over the years, as the pH of the ocean has decreased by what would seem the tiniest of measures, shellfish have become increasingly sensitive to the water’s acidity. The acid isn’t dissolving their shells. Something more complicated is happening here. The rise of carbon dioxide in the ocean has made calcium more soluble, and so the biological mechanisms that shellfish have used to compose their shells for millions of years no longer function as they once did. The process of converting calcium into shell is now slower. Population dynamics are at play, too. Conches with thicker shells are older ones. If we’re only turning up young conches, it means something is happening to the others, likely increased predation or predation by another name, overfishing.

I really messed up your perfect little world, didn’t I?” He reached across the table and took my hand. “If it was really that perfect, you couldn’t have affected it. Getting involved with you hasn’t been without some hard moments. I’ve had to revisit things I never wanted to think about again. But I’m drawn to you like a moon to its orbit. I tried to fight it for a long time. Now I’m just praying I don’t get damaged in a cosmic explosion.

Gatorade’s inventor later created an alcoholic variation, Hop ’n Gator—essentially, lemon lime Gatorade mixed with beer.