Lords Of The Locker Room Quotes

Buck ambles out of the locker room with a towel draped across his bare shoulders and his hockey pants on, thank the Lord. The amount of fur he sports makes him resemble a matted yeti.

Jones’s faithful old friend and chronicler O. B. Keeler, now fifty-five and still covering the sport for the Atlanta Journal, was on hand to witness his victory and interviewed Byron in the locker room afterward. The unfailingly literate Keeler mentioned that Byron’s back nine charge had put him in mind of Lord Byron’s poem about Napoleon’s defeat at the Battle of Waterloo. His headline the next day read: “LORD BYRON WINS MASTERS.

I swear to the Lord Himself, I nearly faint. Feeling wobbly, I take a seat, unable to believe just how sexy this entire sport is. Diving men, rippling muscles, the element of surprise. How have I never spent any time watching baseball before?

Oh my lord. It can’t be. But it most certainly was. What in the heck is he doing here? Why in the hell was the star wide receiver of the Georgia Bulldogs at his mother’s funeral? The man that made history by coming out and telling the world he was bisexual two years ago. He was a hero, and he looked the part. He stood tall, at least 6’2”, or 6’3”. His wavy, dirty blond hair was longer on top than the cropped hair on the sides. Dark shades covered what he knew were magnetic, emerald-green eyes. His broad shoulders made his suit hang beautifully on his large body. Curtis’ mouth watered at the thought of all those muscles. He’d gotten glimpses of the man’s chest and biceps when the reporters and cameramen of ESPN would go in the locker room to listen to the coach congratulate his team on a win. There he was right there, just twenty feet away from him. 

As Krona and Anston collected themselves and walked toward the locker rooms, black and red cheerleaders poured from a side door, and I knew who sent them the moment I saw them. They were carrying pom poms that looked to be made out of actual fire but didn’t burn them. Each wore the burning fist symbol of my father on their chests, and they danced out to form up in front of the stands reserved for him. “I-N-F-E-R-N-O, he’s our lord, our H-E-R-O!” they cheered. “Blessed be his name, blessed be, blessed be, Innnnferno!” “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.” I buried my head in my hands and muttered, “He brought the Infernets. Of course.” Eric was absolutely enthralled. “The what now?” He eyed the cheerleaders like anyone would, admiring their high-cut skirts and the bizarre fiery pom poms they wielded. My father was clapping along to their chant in the front row like a toddler being shown an especially catchy song. He bounced in his seat and whistled enthusiastically. “The Infernettes,” I explained as I resisted the urge to groan. “He has his own cheerleading squad.

He led the USFL with 28 sacks for 199 yards lost (both professional football records), but also led in manic mayhem. Early on during training camp, Corker—nicknamed Sack Man—gathered the team in a circle and guided the Panthers in prayer. “He started praying like a Baptist black preacher,” said Dave Tipton, a defensive tackle, “and I thought, Wow, Corker must walk with the Lord.” Not quite. Blessed with the world’s largest penis, Corker never shied away from showing it off to fellow Panthers. “The biggest johnson in the USFL,” said Matt Braswell, the team’s center. “We had women reporters come into the locker room, and Corker would position himself so he was in full view of any females. He had this vat of Nivea skin cream, and he would just make sure to completely rub it and moisturize it.” Corker operated on a clock that required only two to three hours of sleep per night, and was powered by the dual fuels of alcohol and cocaine. He kept a gun in his car’s glove compartment, missed as many meetings as he attended, and proudly pasted his pay stubs to his locker, so that teammates could marvel at the money he was being docked. Once, Hebert drove with Corker from Pontiac to Detroit for a promotional appearance. It was snowing outside, the roads were slippery—“and Corker was driving, smoking one joint after another,” said Hebert. “We both walked in reeking of pot.” In a USFL urban legend that actually checks out, Corker was once found naked on the ice at Joe Louis Arena in the early-morning hours. He had passed out, and spent so much time on the cold surface that some of his skin had to be ripped off. “That,” said Bentley, “surprised none of us.