Madden Game Quotes

Being caught up in a game without having a clue about the rules, may be extremely maddening and frustrating. Liberty may be so frightening and grueling, that many don’t conceal their passion for rules and regulations, since these can give a relieving feeling of security and protection. ("When forgetting the rules of the game" )

My nana used to say that broken people love the hardest because they appreciate the things that make their heart beat. Do I make your heart beat?

This game is a hell we’ve all been damned into. It’s designed to madden us. The most intelligent Arcana ever to play is called the Fool. The one who least wanted to kill was named Death. And you, Empress, rule over nothing!

Falling for someone can be a lot like playing roulette. You don't know what will happen when you place that bet, but you can take a deep breath anyway and put all the chips out there. And when the ball spins around and around, you pray it lands on your number. Probability says you'll likely lose, and in this game of love with Leo, odds were I would lose, too, but I had to try.

at the end of the game the team with the most points on the board is going to win.

You are only confined by the rules you set for yourself. Live your life,

You are the best person in all my universes

People feel how they feel. You can’t change that.

Be good and you’ll be lonely.’” He arches a brow. “Mark Twain?

Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.

Arnold Palmer once said, “Golf is deceptively simple and endlessly complicated; it satisfies the soul and frustrates the intellect. It is at the same time rewarding and maddening—and it is without a doubt the greatest game mankind has ever invented.”1

Let’s just say I know how to satisfy a woman, to have her crave me every moment we’re apart.” I volunteer as tribute. What? No.

I know you’re over there laughing at me, but I can’t look at you, because I have to read the subtitles.” “You are so weird.” “You have no idea.

Dreams are meant to evolve.

You’re the little girl who always did exactly what she wanted anyway. You have so many gifts, Elena, so much talent and creativity and drive. I’m so proud of you and the person you are. And I never want you to do or be someone you aren’t. I want you to love yourself first and take your own path, even if it isn’t mine but one next to me where you go further than I ever dreamed, where you’re happy. My love for you is strong, baby girl. It holds no laws; it is limitless. I want you to be you.

Men pushing each other around in tight pants, fighting over a ball? Please. Very caveman.

I love you like the sun loves the day. - Brody Madden

He is now ready for a real relationship—the connection of two souls with a purpose other than mindless fucking and relationship games.

He’s a Greek god on steroids.

Baby, please come. I need to fuck you,” he rumbles.

And those eyes. They glitter like topaz. No wonder you rode that stallion.

It’s not that pretty of a story.” “Scars usually aren’t.

I gave you my heart tonight in front of everyone. It felt fucking amazing.

She took my breath then. To know that she loved me. That I was her one. And she was my one.

She raises an eyebrow. “You call all your friends baby?” Only you. “Of course.

Everything is a push and pull—gravity, if you will—how we are drawn to certain people and not others. And when you get that zing with it . . . it must be amazing. They have zing.

I want you. All those theories you got, and I got one for you: you’re in deep with me.

I too often took golf’s capriciousness as its most maddening vice, but if I adjusted my stance and looked from another angle, its fickleness was the game’s greatest gift.

If he wasn't careful, he'd fall to chasing his own mind, trapped in the maddening game of don't think about that.

You’re part of the fabric of my life, Giselle, and our quilt is stronger now. You have to see that. Forgive yourself, and things will be clearer, your heart open, major decisions easier.

I love you,” I say, the words broken. “I knew you’d sweep me away—and in the end, you’d crush me. I stayed right with you all the way because I couldn’t bear to not be part of your world!

Straddle him like a thoroughbred, Elena. Take those reins, dig your spurs in, and ride him until you can’t walk the next day. Pound him so hard he can’t even say “Cloudy with a chance of snow” the next day.

Ego bruised?” “It’s worth you dancing with me,” she says with a smile and tangles her hands in my hair as we start dancing again, and I have no clue if it’s a fast song or slow, but I don’t want her out of my arms.

You love me; do you not?” I gape at him. That is not Romeo’s line. Or mine. “Do you love me?” My hands clench. “Did I not say it was so?” “Will my love forgive me for leaving when he first heard of it? It was only fear and insecurities that drove him thus.

(...) And I had on the right shirt, er, costume, and you sat down with me, and my heart began to beat. Isn’t that fate? Isn’t that life giving us a chance? Isn’t it? Please, tell me it is, because I can’t walk away from you again without knowing you haven’t given up on me.

I love to sketch but am too embarrassed to show anyone. I won a national championship my senior year, the Heisman when I was a junior. I’m actually . . . shy. Dwight Schrute from The Office makes me laugh until I cry. And recently, I’ve discovered I have an insatiable penchant for hot librarians.

What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” “The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine,” he says softly. My lashes flutter. “I gave thee mine before you asked. I would give it again.” I screwed it up. That was all wrong. I left out so much. Lord. Help. He stares at me. “Would you give it again?

My love as deep, the more I give to thee. The more I have, for both are infinite. Forever.” He takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “Will you tell me again? No one’s ever said it and meant it, Elena.” I shake my head at him, heart pounding. Hammering. “I know it’s not a line, but I have to know.

Lucy Gray's fate was a mystery, then, just like the little girl who shared her name in that maddening song. Was she alive, dead, a ghost who haunted the wilderness? Perhaps no one would ever really know. No matter — snow had been the ruination of them both. Poor Lucy Gray. Poor ghost girl singing away with her birds.

It pays to keep an open mind, but not so open your brains fall out,” I quote. She lifts up on her elbow and stares at me. “Carl Sagan?” I smirk at the surprise in her tone. “Not just a jock, Giselle. I read, mostly on the road.” She blows at a piece of hair in her face and plops back down. “Devon Walsh, squashing stereotypes one quote at a time.

God. Elena . . .” “No one’s ever said my name like you do.” He pauses and cups my face. “Good.” I smile at how breathless he is, the stillness of him, that hint of anxiousness on his face, as if he’s afraid I might disappear. He stares down at me, an unsure look on his face. “I’m not disappearing.” His eyes close briefly. “I’d die if you leave.

Didn’t know you liked K-dramas.” “Yeah, I’ve been waiting for this stupid guy to kiss this chick for about ten episodes, and if something doesn’t happen soon, I’m writing an email to the producers.” “It’s subtitled, and it’s a romance? Wow.” He takes in my open mouth. “I won’t judge you for eating a pound of bread when we met, and you don’t judge me for my K-dramas.

Is that . . . are those tiny flying pigs on your shirt?” I ask as I narrow my gaze, taking in the white shirt buttoned up to a black velvet Peter Pan collar. “Yes. The fabric is from a designer in New York. I ordered it a month ago and went crazy. I even made Romeo a pillow.” “Is that the new wide receiver for the Saints? Drafted last year?” She cocks her head. “Hardly. He’s my little potbellied pig. A teacup.

The great football coach John Madden was once asked whether he would tolerate a player like Terrell Owens on his team. Owens was both one of the most talented players in the game and one of the biggest jerks. Madden answered, “If you hold the bus for everyone on the team, then you’ll be so late you’ll miss the game, so you can’t do that. The bus must leave on time. However, sometimes you’ll have a player that’s so good that you hold the bus for him, but only him.

God, look at you, the most . . . amazing man I’ve ever met.” Her voice catches. My heart tightens, the emotion so fierce I have to catch my breath. I meet her eyes, and there’s a shimmer of tears there. Longing for her stretches inside me, clawing to get out and claim her, to listen to her heartbeat with my hand pressed to her chest, to have her in my arms for as long as she’d let me. “You really think that about me?” “Oh, Devon. You are the best person in all my universes.

Devon!” I scream over the melee, at the men who are holding him back from the entrance. It feels like a million seconds before he flips around, his wild eyes zeroing in on mine. Then he’s turning and walking—no, running, running so fast, like I’ve seen him on TV, only . . . Strong hands land on my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin. His normally tan face is white, his mouth pulled back in a snarl. I lick my lips, gasping for air. “We . . . really . . . need to . . . stop . . . meeting like this—” He jerks me to him, growls, and kisses me.

Then have my lips the sin that they have took,” I say. “Give me my sin again,” he murmurs. I swallow. He’s jumped ahead a few lines, but I nod and kiss him again. He slants his mouth across mine and sighs, his hand still on my face, our bodies closer than they should be. “Elena.” It’s not loud, but it’s audible and clear. The cast keeps on, never looking at us. His eyes search mine as he opens his mouth, as if to say something, but it’s my line. “You kiss by th’ book,” I say ardently—like the line calls for. “Then I’ll take another.” That is not the line.

kill him. You have to kill him, Jacky, and her, too. Because a real artist must suffer. Because each man kills the thing he loves. Because they’ll always be conspiring against you, trying to hold you back and drag you down. Right this minute that boy of yours is in where he shouldn’t be. Trespassing. That’s what he’s doing. He’s a goddam little pup. Cane him for it, Jacky, cane him within an inch of his life. Have a drink, Jacky my boy, and we’ll play the elevator game. Then I’ll go with you while you give him his medicine. I know you can do it, of course you can. You must kill him. You have to kill him, Jacky, and her, too. Because a real artist must suffer. Because each man—” His father’s voice, going up higher and higher, becoming something maddening, not human at all, something squealing and petulant and maddening, the voice of the Ghost-God, the Pig-God, coming dead at him out of the radio and

She’s elderly and needs care. It’s a very large apartment,” he says to Giselle. “You’d love her.” Shit, she loves older people. “Did she tell you she’s writing a romance?” I blurt. Greg’s eyebrows go sky high. “Ah, no.” “Aliens,” I say as I take a sip of my water. “Purple with sparkly scales and prehensile tails.” “I took the tail off!” she calls. “Oh?” He blinks down at Giselle, who’s currently giving me a flat look. Focusing on him, I try to decipher if he’s into it or thinks it’s not worthy of a scientist, but dammit, he’s not giving me any tells. “Do you think that’s silly?” she asks him. I don’t, babe, is on the tip of my tongue. Tell me more about them. Tell me everything. Put me back on your Pinterest board. (Yeah, I had to look up what that was.) You be the woman who can rock whatever she wants because she’s fascinating and intelligent and sexy as fuck. Greg leans in closer to her, his eyes heavy lidded. “I’m guessing you used real science to explain the details?” “Of course,” she says. He bites his lip. “Damn. That’s hot—” “All right!” I announce and shove at Aiden to get up.

Alexander has nearly completely forgotten what it’s like to play, except when he’s in the water, but there had been no water in Texas, barely any in New Mexico, and now they’re in Arid Zona. Anthony tries land games with his father. He perches on Alexander’s lap, holds the tips of his index fingers together, and says, “Daddy, want to see how strong I am? Hold my fingers in your fist, and I’ll get free.” Alexander stubs out his cigarette. He holds Anthony’s fingers lightly, and the boy wriggles free. The delight of freeing himself from his daunting father is so great that he wants to play the game again and again. They play it two hundred times. And then the reverse. Alexander holds his index fingers together while Anthony clenches his tiny four-year-old fist over them. When Alexander is unable to get free, Anthony’s joy is something to behold. They play that two hundred times while Tatiana either prepares lunch or dinner, or washes or tidies, or just sits and watches them with a gladdening heart. Alexander takes Anthony off his knee and says in a throaty, nicotine-stained voice, “Tatia, want to play? Put your fingers into my fist and see if you can wriggle free. Come.” Not a muscle moves on his face, but her heart is no longer just gladdening. It’s quickening, it’s maddening. She knows she shouldn’t, Anthony is right there, but when Alexander calls, she comes. That’s just how it is. She perches on his lap and touches together the tips of her slightly trembling index fingers. She tries not to look into his face, just at her fingers, over which he now places his enormous fist, squeezes lightly, and says, “Go ahead, wriggle free.” Her whole body weakens. She tries, of course, to get free, but she knows this: while as a father Alexander plays one way with Anthony, as a husband, he plays the opposite way with her. She bites her lip to keep from making a single sound. “Come on, Mommy,” says the uncomprehending child by her side. “You can do it. I did it! Wriggle free.” “Yes, Tatiasha,” whispers Alexander, squeezing her fingers tighter, looking deep into her face as she sits on his lap. “Come on, wriggle free.” And she glimpses the smiling soul peeking out.

Children.” Westcliff’s sardonic voice caused them both to look at him blankly. He was standing from his chair and stretching underused muscles. “I’m afraid this has gone on long enough for me. You are welcome to continue playing, but I beg to take leave.” “But who will arbitrate?” Daisy protested. “Since no one has been keeping score for at least a half hour,” the earl said dryly, “there is no further need for my judgement.” “Yes we have,” Daisy argued, and turned to Swift. “What is the score?” “I don’t know.” As their gazes held, Daisy could hardly restrain a snicker of sudden embarrassment. Amusement glittered in Swift’s eyes. “I think you won,” he said. “Oh, don’t condescend to me,” Daisy said. “You’re ahead. I can take a loss. It’s part of the game.” “I’m not being condescending. It’s been point-for-point for at least…” Swift fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a watch. “…two hours.” “Which means that in all likelihood you preserved your early lead.” “But you chipped away at it after the third round—” “Oh, hell’s bells!” came Lillian’s voice from the sidelines. She sounded thoroughly aggravated, having gone into the manor for a nap and come out to find them still at the bowling green. “You’ve quarreled all afternoon like a pair of ferrets, and now you’re fighting over who won. If someone doesn’t put a stop to it, you’ll be squabbling out here ‘til midnight. Daisy, you’re covered with dust and your hair is a bird’s nest. Come inside and put yourself to rights. Now.” “There’s no need to shout,” Daisy replied mildly, following her sister’s retreating figure. She glanced over her shoulder at Matthew Swift…a friendlier glance than she had ever given him before, then turned and quickened her pace. Swift began to pick up the wooden bowls. “Leave them,” Westcliff said. “The servants will put things in order. Your time is better spent preparing yourself for supper, which will commence in approximately one hour.” Obligingly Matthew dropped the bowls and went toward the house with Westcliff. He watched Daisy’s small, sylphlike form until she disappeared from sight. Westcliff did not miss Matthew’s fascinated gaze. “You have a unique approach to courtship,” he commented. “I wouldn’t have thought beating Daisy at lawn games would catch her interest, but it seems to have done the trick.” Matthew contemplated the ground before his feet, schooling his tone into calm unconcern. “I’m not courting Miss Bowman.” “Then it seems I misinterpreted your apparent passion for bowls.” Matthew shot him a defensive glance. “I’ll admit, I find her entertaining. But that doesn’t mean I want to marry her.” “The Bowman sisters are rather dangerous that way. When one of them first attracts your interest, all you know is she’s the most provoking creature you’ve ever encountered. But then you discover that as maddening as she is, you can scarcely wait until the next time you see her. Like the progression of an incurable disease, it spreads from one organ to the next. The craving begins. All other women begin to seem colorless and dull in comparison. You want her until you think you’ll go mad from it. You can’t stop thinking—” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Matthew interrupted, turning pale. He was not about to succumb to an incurable disease. A man had choices in life. And no matter what Westcliff believed, this was nothing more than a physical urge. An unholy powerful, gut-wrenching, insanity-producing physical urge…but it could be conquered by sheer force of will. “If you say so,” Westcliff said, sounding unconvinced.

Across the ancient Roman Empire there were only four chariot teams, each designated by a color. By the fifth century, those had been reduced to two, the Blues and the Greens. At least once a week the gates of the Hippodrome would open, allowing thousands of Constantinople’s citizens to file in. To the left were the seats reserved for aristocrats and governmental officials. The closer that one could sit to the imperial loge, of course, the better. To the right were the sections for the regular citizens. Here, too, there were sharp divisions, first by team supporters and then by social status. And the divisions went deeper than that. The Blues and the Greens were not simply teams, but highly competitive clubs of sports fans, whose activities extended well beyond the games. They were, as historians refer to them, circus factions, and they had a clear organization. The faction leaders sat directly opposite the emperor; they were present for the award ceremonies and, in later centuries, took part in virtually all civic ceremonies inside and outside the Hippodrome. Emperors usually expressed a preference for one faction or the other (usually the Blues), and in later years the favored faction could occasionally provide an emperor with armed support against urban insurrections. It is not true, as one sometimes reads, that the factions were political parties. Instead, they were extremely enthusiastic fan clubs whose members, when unhappy, could become very, very dangerous.

In addition they travelled maddening distances between games with very few rest days, in a schedule to suit the counties they played rather than logic. Though no Test matches, the tour finished in Bristol with a game against a Gloucestershire team including WG and Gilbert Jessop. The captain of England at the time was Pelham 'Plum' Warner, who wrote.. There is a case in point of the extraordinary power the game has over its votaries in this matter of sinking all prejudices and dislike, real or imaginary, in the tour in the United Kingdom of a team from India composed of men of all castes and creeds. I make so bold as to say that this travelling and living together of natives of various castes and creeds will have far-reaching effect in India.

Now, as soon as I wake up, I check my iPhone for the New York Times Spelling Bee, a find-a-word game that is both compelling and maddening (What?! You’re telling me “ottomen” isn’t a word? Then what’s the plural of “ottoman”?!). Before going to sleep, I do Wordle and the Times crossword puzzle.

Thanks to the realistic ideas handed down by culture, mankind has survived and, in certain fields, progresses. But thanks to the pernicious nonsense drummed into every individual in the course of his acculturation, mankind, though surviving and progressing, has always been in trouble. History is the record, among other things, of the fantastic and generally fiendish tricks played upon itself by culture-maddened humanity. And the hideous game goes on.

Going in circles is more effective than going nowhere,” the Mad Hatter rationalized, wagging an accusatory finger at me. “Although, the joy lies not in the destination, but in the maddening journey itself. All we can do is twist and twirl and dance to the chaos. That, my dear Cheshire Cat, is the essence of life’s wicked game. Going nowhere—stagnation—is the true curse that stifles the soul.

I fight to win To conquer I will presevere and use my fear And with the grace of God I will triumph over failure Rise beneath defeat And I will fly - Brody Madden

I love you like a squirrel loves his nuts. - Brody Madden

I love you like a hobbit loves his second breakfast. - Brody Madden

I love you like a couch potato loves his remote. - Brody Madden

Children.” Westcliff’s sardonic voice caused them both to look at him blankly. He was standing from his chair and stretching underused muscles. “I’m afraid this has gone on long enough for me. You are welcome to continue playing, but I beg to take leave.” “But who will arbitrate?” Daisy protested. “Since no one has been keeping score for at least a half hour,” the earl said dryly, “there is no further need for my judgement.” “Yes we have,” Daisy argued, and turned to Swift. “What is the score?” “I don’t know.” As their gazes held, Daisy could hardly restrain a snicker of sudden embarrassment. Amusement glittered in Swift’s eyes. “I think you won,” he said. “Oh, don’t condescend to me,” Daisy said. “You’re ahead. I can take a loss. It’s part of the game.” “I’m not being condescending. It’s been point-for-point for at least…” Swift fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a watch. “…two hours.” “Which means that in all likelihood you preserved your early lead.” “But you chipped away at it after the third round—” “Oh, hell’s bells!” came Lillian’s voice from the sidelines. She sounded thoroughly aggravated, having gone into the manor for a nap and come out to find them still at the bowling green. “You’ve quarreled all afternoon like a pair of ferrets, and now you’re fighting over who won. If someone doesn’t put a stop to it, you’ll be squabbling out here ’til midnight. Daisy, you’re covered with dust and your hair is a bird’s nest. Come inside and put yourself to rights. Now.” “There’s no need to shout,” Daisy replied mildly, following her sister’s retreating figure. She glanced over her shoulder at Matthew Swift…a friendlier glance than she had ever given him before, then turned and quickened her pace. Swift began to pick up the wooden bowls. “Leave them,” Westcliff said. “The servants will put things in order. Your time is better spent preparing yourself for supper, which will commence in approximately one hour.” Obligingly Matthew dropped the bowls and went toward the house with Westcliff. He watched Daisy’s small, sylphlike form until she disappeared from sight. Westcliff did not miss Matthew’s fascinated gaze. “You have a unique approach to courtship,” he commented. “I wouldn’t have thought beating Daisy at lawn games would catch her interest, but it seems to have done the trick.” Matthew contemplated the ground before his feet, schooling his tone into calm unconcern. “I’m not courting Miss Bowman.” “Then it seems I misinterpreted your apparent passion for bowls.” Matthew shot him a defensive glance. “I’ll admit, I find her entertaining. But that doesn’t mean I want to marry her.” “The Bowman sisters are rather dangerous that way. When one of them first attracts your interest, all you know is she’s the most provoking creature you’ve ever encountered. But then you discover that as maddening as she is, you can scarcely wait until the next time you see her. Like the progression of an incurable disease, it spreads from one organ to the next. The craving begins. All other women begin to seem colorless and dull in comparison. You want her until you think you’ll go mad from it. You can’t stop thinking—” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Matthew interrupted, turning pale. He was not about to succumb to an incurable disease. A man had choices in life. And no matter what Westcliff believed, this was nothing more than a physical urge. An unholy powerful, gut-wrenching, insanity-producing physical urge…but it could be conquered by sheer force of will. “If you say so,” Westcliff said, sounding unconvinced.

Out there on the field, the game is everything. It builds you up, breaks you down, and it bleeds you dry. But I love it. It's the only place I'm free. - Brody Madden

the foster-to-adopt experience is not one of those times where trying to skate by with a bare minimum of knowledge is going to cut it. There are just too many decisions, too many forks in the road, too many implications to not be on top of your game. And really, this is probably one thing in life where you DO want to be on top of your game. It’s a crazy enough situation when you know what you’re doing! Not having an understanding of the system, the politics, or the twists and turns would be maddening at least and at most, could result in you making a bad decision or a mistake that has long term consequences on your life and the life of your child. So I hate to break it to you if you thought you’d picked up your last textbook back in school, but there are several steps along the way where you’ll need to do some research in order to ensure that things go as smoothly as possible.

He’s had some surprising successes (e.g., Amish vs. Aliens—a maddeningly addictive Facebook game). He’s had some awful flops (e.g., Forever 29—a store for older women who liked to dress like trashy youngsters, and lie about their age). And

Just when she’d thought her boyfriend was as dense as post, he’d come through for her. No, it wasn’t the most romantic proposal she could have imagined, but it was absolutely one hundred percent John Palmer and that made it perfect. It was good to know that she could put him off his game occasionally, though. She laughed lightly to herself, remembering the look on his face. That would be a look she would cherish for a long time. John was a smart man, sometimes too smart for his own good. The confident male part of his personality had grown as he’d become more secure in their relationship. Which was fine. She loved that he was secure with her. But he’d gotten a little big for his britches, as her mother liked to say, and had needed to be knocked down a peg. Her pregnancy had done that. John was about to be immersed into something he knew absolutely nothing about, babies.

Why would you want to stay?” She looked at him incredulously, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. She took a minute to get her words in order. “Because I love you, you big dope. Why else would I be here, willing to put up with this ridiculous off and on game? You’ve sucked me into your life and I have no desire whatsoever to leave. Do you seriously want me to walk out that door?” “No I don’t want you to walk out the damn door,” he growled, “but I don’t want you to be dragged down by this, or me. I’m looking at weeks of recovery, maybe more.” “I’m not going to go anywhere,” she promised, daring to step toward the bed. “See, you act as if you have a choice in this, but you really don’t. I love you,” she said firmly. He

It was obvious by his reaction to her that he was in love with her. It had kind of been creeping up on him, but tonight it had been so evident. If he knew where she was staying, he would drive over there. Or would he? He felt a little like he was walking on rough ground. It had been years… hell, a decade… since he’d professed his love to anyone, and look how well that had turned out. Alex was a different woman. No, Alex hadn’t gone through the same waiting game for him that Melanie had, but to some extent, she’d grown up with it, having experienced it with her father. He knew in his gut that she’d never have given up on him, on them, the way Melanie had. And

Love is deceptively simple and endlessly complex, it satisfies the soul and frustrates the intellect. It is stimulating and maddening at the same instant – and it is without doubt the greatest game human heart has ever invented.

You’ve been leading me a merry dance for weeks. You are the most annoying, disrespectful, irritating little minx, but lord help me I love every maddening inch of you!

the absence of Patriots personnel in Stingley’s hospital room, or the identity of a frequent visitor. “You know who spent the most time with him? Madden,” says Newhouse. “John Madden spent hours and hours at Stingley’s bedside. Even weeks later he was flying home from road games, driving from the airport to the hospital to sit up all night with Darryl Stingley. Madden and his wife, Virginia, became friends with Stingley’s family, and there was no PR to it because nobody knew about it.

Yes. We were talking about those excluded from the flock of sheep. For centuries, as pope and emperor tore each other apart in their quarrels over power, the excluded went on living on the fringe, like lepers, of whom true lepers are only the illustration ordained by God to make us understand this wondrous parable, so that in saying ‘lepers’ we would understand ‘outcast, poor, simple, excluded, uprooted from the countryside, humiliated in the cities.’ But we did not understand; the mystery of leprosy has continued to haunt us because we have not recognized the nature of the sign. Excluded as they were from the flock, all of them were ready to hear every sermon that, harking back to the word of Christ, would in effect condemn the behavior of the dogs and shepherds and would promise their punishment one day. The powerful always knew this. Acknowledging the outcasts meant reducing their own privileges, so the outcasts who were acknowledged as outcasts had to be branded as heretics, whatever their doctrine. And for their part, maddened by their exclusion, they were not interested in any doctrine. This is the illusion of heresy. The faith a movement proclaims doesn’t count: what counts is the hope it offers. Scratch the heresy and you will find the leper. Every battle against heresy wants only to keep the leper as he is. As for the lepers, what can you ask of them? That they distinguish between two definitions of the Trinity or of the Eucharist? Come, Adso, these games are for us men of learning. The simple have other problems. And mind you, they solve them all in the wrong way. This is why they become heretics.

I felt I was slumming, in my own life. My task was to ward off the drivel (I felt I was drowning in drivel)—the jovial claptrap of classmates and teachers, the maddening bromide I heard at home. And the weekly comedy shows festooned with canned laughter, the treacly Hit Parade, the hysterical narratings of baseball games and prize fights—radio, whose racket filled the living room on weekday evenings and much of Saturday and Sunday, was an endless torment.

Madden stayed at Stingley’s bedside to offer him whatever comfort he could. Eventually, the tragedy was too much for Madden and he retired from coaching for good to become a broadcasting, video game, and foot-powder pitchman legend. Those who disliked Madden when he was coaching the Raiders had perhaps never been more wrong in their judgment of another human being than they were about him.

As if she knew what I was thinking, Isabella chimed in with her opinion. “You need to wear something slutty to the next game.” “You offering to let me in your closet?” I grinned. “I am the best.” I laughed and tossed a French fry at her. She tried to catch it with her mouth, making me giggle harder. Bianca swept her eyes over at us, as if our shenanigans annoyed her. A sneer curled on her face as she went from me to Isabella. Isabella flipped her off, and I laughed.

In fact, I hated Loomis—let me count the ways. His imprecision and laziness maddened my compulsive instincts—his patchiness, the way even his speech was riddled with drop-outs and glitches like a worn cassette, the way his leaden senses refused the world, his attention like a pinball rolling past unlit blinkers and frozen flippers into the hole again and again: game over . He was permanently impressed by the most irrelevant banalities and impossible to impress with real novelty, meaning, or conflict.