Offseason Quotes

No animal, according to the rules of animal-etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter.

there’s no off-season when you’re serious about being a winner.

Arthur pulled into a car lot reserved for those headed to the beach. Since it was the off-season, it was mostly empty, and there was no one in the pay booth, which had been shuttered. He pulled into the first free space and turned off the van. “Children,” he said mildly. “Please exit the vehicle and buddy up.” A herd of charging, heavily pregnant rhinoceroses would have been quieter than the children were at that moment.

And then came, perhaps, the biggest offseason move in franchise history … and no, we’re not talking about inviting Carlos Peña to camp or hiring Joe Maddon or appointing Andrew Friedman as Executive Vice President of Baseball Operations—those moves had already transpired. No, we’re talking about the really big move. After 2007 the Tampa Bay Devil Rays officially released the 'Devil' and emerged in 2008 as the Tampa Bay Rays.

Spend any time in the real Italy, however, and you quickly realize that Italians don’t really pick grapes much anymore, and they certainly don’t stomp them either. They don’t pick tomatoes—or olives—and they don’t shear their sheep. Their tomatoes and olives are picked largely by underpaid Africans and Eastern Europeans, seasonal hires, brought in for that purpose—who are then demonized and complained about for the rest of the year. (Except when blowing motorists in the offseason—as can be readily observed on the outskirts of even the smallest Italian communities these days.)

Green, cheap, and off-season continue to be the three mercantile legs upon which Florida’s tomato industry stands.

The process begins during the off-season program, when players spend countless hours together and become heavily invested in the season before it even starts. It continues during these weekly meetings, when players stand and deliver heartfelt testimonials. You can't play for Ladouceur unless you're willing to stand in front of your teammates and bare your soul. You can't play unless you're willing to cry.

Into the 1960s and even the ’70s, players held offseason jobs not to fill the time but to feed their families. Yogi Berra worked at a Sears, Roebuck. Lou Brock became a florist. Players sold real estate and insurance, worked in mines and on ranches.

If I could…” he continues, shaking his head. “I’d chase you. I’d spend every free day on an airplane to get to you, even if that meant I only got to kiss you once before I had to fly back to Chicago. I’d spend my off-season living out of a hotel or out of your fucking van just to be close to you, but it’s not only me I’m making decisions for anymore. And because of that, I don’t want you to say anything. Don’t tell me if you love me, and fuck,” he exhales a painful laugh. “Please don’t tell me if you don’t. But especially don’t give me any hope because if you do, I have a feeling I’d chase you across the country until you were

in the off-season, when even the beach is a poem about loneliness.

Self-improvement does not have an off-season. Regardless of the season, the weather, or whatever may block the path, never stop moving forward.

The air smelled like the inside of the cabins at the summer camp in Maine: must from the off-season, wet wood and mold, bug spray and sunscreen, sunshine and sweaty kids. The essence of summertime.

In the final episode, you’ll see that I’m wearing a white shirt, and tan slacks, and both look at least three sizes too big for me. (Compare this to the difference in how I look between the final episode of season six and the first of season seven—the Chandler-Monica proposal episodes. I’m wearing the same clothes in the final episode of six and the first of seven [it’s supposed to be the same night], but I must have lost fifty pounds in the off-season. My weight varied between 128 pounds and 225 pounds during the years of Friends.)

Teammates...were fine things. Piling onto the bus before the game, edgy with shared nerves, egging one another on with the genial, meaningless phrase C'mon, you guys!, collapsing back into the same seats for the ride home—the sense of striving in accord had been a sweet part of high school. Possibly the sweetest. But the camaraderie had not survived graduation, or even the off-seasons. Her teammates, passing in the school corridors in winter or spring, were downshifted to nodding acquaintances who had once been close, that past connection floating off like cotton candy on the tongue.

What is of interest is what our minds retain, what our lives have given to the air. The witches are gone, vanished; we were just an interval in their lives, and they in ours. But as Sukie’s blue-green ghost continues to haunt the sun-struck pavement, and Jane’s black shape to flit past the moon, so the rumors of the days when they were solid among us, gorgeous and doing evil, have flavored the name of the town in the mouths of others, and for those of us who live here have left something oblong and invisible and exciting we do not understand. We meet it turning the corner where Hemlock meets Oak; it is there when we walk the beach in offseason and the Atlantic in its blackness mirrors the dense packed gray of the clouds: a scandal, life like smoke twisted into legend.

If you are planning to buy storage units in the near future, I recommend that you get a set of drawers instead. Be careful not to bury clothes in the cupboard even if they are off-season. Clothes that have been shut up for half a year look wilted, as if they have been stifled. Instead, let in some light and air occasionally. Open the drawer and run your hands over the contents. Let them know you care and look forward to wearing them when they are next in season.

Rolf Ekeus came round to my apartment one day and showed me the name of the Iraqi diplomat who had visited the little West African country of Niger: a statelet famous only for its production of yellowcake uranium. The name was Wissam Zahawi. He was the brother of my louche gay part-Kurdish friend, the by-now late Mazen. He was also, or had been at the time of his trip to Niger, Saddam Hussein's ambassador to the Vatican. I expressed incomprehension. What was an envoy to the Holy See doing in Niger? Obviously he was not taking a vacation. Rolf then explained two things to me. The first was that Wissam Zahawi had, when Rolf was at the United Nations, been one of Saddam Hussein's chief envoys for discussions on nuclear matters (this at a time when the Iraqis had functioning reactors). The second was that, during the period of sanctions that followed the Kuwait war, no Western European country had full diplomatic relations with Baghdad. TheVatican was the sole exception, so it was sent a very senior Iraqi envoy to act as a listening post. And this man, a specialist in nuclear matters, had made a discreet side trip to Niger. This was to suggest exactly what most right-thinking people were convinced was not the case: namely that British intelligence was on to something when it said that Saddam had not ceased seeking nuclear materials in Africa. I published a few columns on this, drawing at one point an angry email from Ambassador Zahawi that very satisfyingly blustered and bluffed on what he'd really been up to. I also received—this is what sometimes makes journalism worthwhile—a letter from a BBC correspondent named Gordon Correa who had been writing a book about A.Q. Khan. This was the Pakistani proprietor of the nuclear black market that had supplied fissile material to Libya, North Korea, very probably to Syria, and was open for business with any member of the 'rogue states' club. (Saddam's people, we already knew for sure, had been meeting North Korean missile salesmen in Damascus until just before the invasion, when Kim Jong Il's mercenary bargainers took fright and went home.) It turned out, said the highly interested Mr. Correa, that his man Khan had also been in Niger, and at about the same time that Zahawi had. The likelihood of the senior Iraqi diplomat in Europe and the senior Pakistani nuclear black-marketeer both choosing an off-season holiday in chic little uranium-rich Niger… well, you have to admit that it makes an affecting picture. But you must be ready to credit something as ridiculous as that if your touching belief is that Saddam Hussein was already 'contained,' and that Mr. Bush and Mr. Blair were acting on panic reports, fabricated in turn by self-interested provocateurs.

I tell them to recruit kids whose coaches report that they had tremendous work ethics. They lifted weights on their own during the off-season. They showed up early for practice, stayed late, and asked for extra help on their skills. They were leaders who helped push everyone on the team to work harder. And they displayed these traits both when the team did well and when it struggled through adversity. It’s relatively easy to be enthused and hardworking on a team that’s winning. It shows more character to display those same attributes on a team that’s losing. It speaks to a person’s mental toughness, toughness that will be invaluable in dealing with the setbacks and rejections that inevitably come along in a business career.

I'm not really a flowers-and-proper-dates girl," I said, fully aware of his thigh muscles tightening under my hand. "I'm more of a burgers-and-football girl, to be honest. Baseball or hockey since we're in the off-season. Basketball too. Burgers, sports, nothing proper. I'm not proper." Cal rested his forehead on my shoulder with a quiet groan. That sound, it was more intimate than a kiss. It belonged to private spaces where no one else could listen in. But we'd already forgotten about the rest of the world. We were alone here, me and Cal, and I wasn't smitten. I wasn't lovestruck. "Marry me, Stella. Marry me and bear my children." His hand skated up my arm and over my shoulder to cup my face, and just like that, I was kissing a man I'd met an hour ago.

Under "Activities and Interests," it was written "Boston Red Sox." The Boston Red Sox, an activity and an interest. Not a devotion to be suffered. Not a solemn vow in the off-season. Not a memorial to a dead man. Not a calling beyond reason. Just an interest. I take an interest in when they play, whether home or away, whether they win or lose--things like that. Maybe read about it in the paper the next morning. Millions of others just like me, taking an interest. Not "Coronaries and Rehabilitations." Not "Dedications and Forfeitures." Not "Life and Death." "Activities and Interests." This was how it was presented, in terrifying simplicity. What it was all reduced to, the thirty years, and the stupid tears, and every extra inning. An activity and an interest.

Jason, it’s a pleasure.” Instead of being in awe or “fangirling” over one of the best catchers in the country, my dad acts normal and doesn’t even mention the fact that Jason is a major league baseball player. “Going up north with my daughter?” “Yes, sir.” Jason sticks his hands in his back pockets and all I can focus on is the way his pecs press against the soft fabric of his shirt. “A-plus driver here in case you were wondering. No tickets, I enjoy a comfortable position of ten and two on the steering wheel, and I already established the rule in the car that it’s my playlist we’re listening to so there’s no fighting over music. Also, since it’s my off season, I took a siesta earlier today so I was fresh and alive for the drive tonight. I packed snacks, the tank is full, and there is water in reusable water bottles in the center console for each of us. Oh, and gum, in case I need something to chew if this one falls asleep.” He thumbs toward me. “I know how to use my fists if a bear comes near us, but I’m also not an idiot and know if it’s brown, hit the ground, if it’s black, fight that bastard back.” Oh my God, why is he so adorable? “I plan on teaching your daughter how to cook a proper meal this weekend, something she can make for you and your wife when you’re in town.” “Now this I like.” My dad chuckles. Chuckles. At Jason. I think I’m in an alternate universe. “I saw this great place that serves apparently the best pancakes in Illinois, so Sunday morning, I’d like to go there. I’d also like to hike, and when it comes to the sleeping arrangements, I was informed there are two bedrooms, and I plan on using one of them alone. No worries there.” Oh, I’m worried . . . that he plans on using the other one. “Well, looks like you’ve covered everything. This is a solid gentleman, Dottie.” I know. I really know. “Are you good? Am I allowed to leave now?” “I don’t know.” My dad scratches the side of his jaw. “Just from how charismatic this man is and his plans, I’m thinking I should take your place instead.” “I’m up for a bro weekend,” Jason says, his banter and decorum so easy. No wonder he’s loved so much. “Then I wouldn’t have to see the deep eye-roll your daughter gives me on a constant basis.” My dad leans in and says, “She gets that from me, but I will say this, I can’t possibly see myself eye-rolling with you. Do you have extra clothes packed for me?” “Do you mind sharing underwear with another man? Because I’m game.” My dad’s head falls back as he laughs. “I’ve never rubbed another man’s underwear on my junk, but never say never.” “Ohhh-kay, you two are done.” I reach up and press a kiss to my dad’s cheek. “We are leaving.” I take Jason by the arm and direct him back to the car. From over his shoulder, he mouths to my dad to call him, which my dad replies with a thumbs up. Ridiculous. Hilarious. When we’re saddled up in the car, I let out a long breath and shift my head to the side so I can look at him. Sincerely I say, “Sorry about that.” With the biggest smile on his face, his hand lands on my thigh. He gives it a good squeeze and says, “Don’t apologize, that was fucking awesome.

colors and the picket-fenced lawns and the shoppes we spell the olde English way and the sweet smell of the river running through. Parking spaces are plentiful in the off-season. They choose a spot in front of the coffeehouse, climb out with their smiles intact, squinting against the high-altitude sun—a handsome couple just shy of forty, their fashionably-

At the FBI, I spoke often about LeBron James. Even though I don’t know the man personally, I talked about him for two reasons. First, I believe he is the best basketball player in the world today. Second, he is never satisfied he is good enough. I have read that he spends every off-season working on some part of his game to improve it. At first glance, that seems crazy; he’s already better than everybody else. But it makes complete sense when you consider his perspective: he isn’t measuring himself against the other players; he is measuring himself against himself. The best leaders don’t care much about “benchmarking,” comparing their organization to others. They know theirs is not good enough, and constantly push to get better.

The most effective way to prevent off-season weight gain from getting out of hand is to set a specific weight-gain limit. I suggest you try to limit your off-season weight gain to no more than 8 percent of your optimal performance weight.

If they start with clothes they are currently using, clients are more likely to think, “It doesn’t spark joy, but I just wore it yesterday,” or “If I don’t have any clothes left to wear, what am I going to do?” This makes it harder for them to make an objective decision. Because off-season clothes are not imminently necessary, it is much easier to apply the simple criterion of whether or not they bring you joy. There’s one question I recommend asking when you select off-season clothes. “Do I want to see this outfit again next time it’s in season?” Or, to rephrase it, “Would I want to wear this right away if the temperature suddenly changed?

South of Marfa is the road to Big Bend, one of the least visited national parks in the country, and also one of the most glorious. On the way, there is a pleasant resort, Cibolo Creek Ranch, built around several old forts inside the crater of an extinct volcano. Roberta and I once stayed there in the off-season, midsummer, and spent out time chasing hummingbirds and the adorable vermilion flycatcher. In more temperate weather, the ranch has served as a getaway for celebrities, including Mick Jagger, Tommy Lee Jones and Bruce Willis.

In the off-season, it wasn’t games that the players missed—it was their teammates. It was the team.

storage bedroom closet (walk-in or standard) dresser armoire underbed storage boxes trunk or storage ottoman nightstand supplies needed trash bags/recycling bin, donation box, relocation box, fix-it box spray cleaner and cleaning cloth broom and dust pan and/or vacuum storage containers label maker and/or tags to hang from containers/baskets time commitment 4–10 hours quick assessment questions What are the main categories of clothing? What items could be placed in off-season storage? What

Not a fan of eating breakfast, the chief routinely stopped at the McDonald’s in town and ordered her favorite: peppermint mocha. They knew the chief so well, the local chain restaurant actually stashed some of the peppermint mixture during the off-season specifically for Frizzo. “It was one of the highlights of my morning,” she said.

Like that once the season is over, once I’m not a client to her, I’m going to commit my entire off-season to convincing her to give me a shot. A real shot. A shot to be everything.

The end of the day grew long on the hills, then the dark pulled in close around us. Snowflakes looped and glared in the headlights like off-season lightning bugs.

Kleyweg’s Stads Koffyhuis is a local institution that’s won prizes for its sandwiches (see the trophies above the counter). This is a great spot for an affordable bite, either in the country-cozy interior or out on a canal barge (€7-10 sandwiches and hamburgers, €6-13 savory or sweet pancakes, big €13 salads, Mon-Fri 9:00-20:00, Sat 9:00-18:00, closed Sun, shorter hours off-season, just down the canal from the Old Church at Oude Delft 133, tel. 015/212-4625).

Pushing a refrigerated green vegetable from one end of the earth to another is, let’s face it, a bizarre use of fuel. But there’s a simpler reason to pass up off-season asparagus: it’s inferior.

I usually say, “Let’s start with off-season clothes.” I have a good reason for choosing off-season clothing for their first foray into this tidying gala. It’s the easiest category for tuning in to one’s intuition concerning what feels good. If they start with clothes they are currently using, clients are more likely to think, “It doesn’t spark joy, but I just wore it yesterday,” or “If I don’t have any clothes left to wear, what am I going to do?” This makes it harder for them to make an objective decision. Because off-season clothes are not imminently necessary, it is much easier to apply the simple criterion of whether or not they bring you joy.

Divide your clothes roughly into “cotton-like” and “wool-like” materials when you put them in the drawer. Categorizing by season—summer, winter, fall-and-spring—or by activity, such as work and leisure, should be avoided because it is too vague. If my client’s space is limited, I have them store only small, specific off-season items, such as bathing suits and sun hats for the summer season, and mufflers, mittens, and earmuffs for the winter season. Although not a small item, winter coats can also be put away in the back of the closet during the off-season.

Someone as locked down and in control as Jeter was probably not much tempted by gambling and recreational drugs. (His only admitted addiction is the nicely self-deprecating one of too much movie watching. “During the off-season, I go to the movies almost every day,” he’s told reporters. “You hear about women buying shoes? I buy DVDs. I definitely have a problem.”)

Forget the stiff punches, or the hardcore bloodlettings, or the shoot interviews: This is the ne plus ultra of reality in wrestling. The enlightened wrestling fan has likely spent significant amounts of time explaining to nonviewers that even though wrestling is staged, it’s not fake—that no amount of planning, no amount of scripting, no amount of physical trickery or assisted landing, no amount of ring elasticity or floor mat cushion can remotely assuage the physical assault of an average wrestling match. Every night on the road ends with ice bags or painkillers or just plain old pain, the unrelenting kind, the “you sit down in your rental car and electric voltage shoots up your spine” kind of pain, and so what, you get in your car anyway and drive to the next town and work another match tomorrow night and the fans cheer but they don’t know. And you get two or three days off after tomorrow or the next day, and let’s hope to God that’s enough to get you right, because then it starts all over again. And then again next week, and then for months, and if you’re lucky—imagine that word, here of all places—if you’re lucky it’ll keep going for years. And there’s no off-season, no prolonged downtime unless, God forbid, you’re seriously injured. That’s reality. Fans will try to explain this to people, but wrestlers themselves are, for the most part, too proud—or too committed to the facade—to explain it to anyone, and it’s this kind of pride, this commitment, that leads to a functional code of silence, even within the locker room, even among friends, and so to painkiller abuse, to alcohol abuse to take the edge off, to illicit drug use to get you going afterward, out of the fog of painkillers and beer. This is reality. Wrestling fans can explain this, but who can put into words the pain of working a wrestling match in which you’re in so much pain that you don’t want to be touched but you’re too proud not to go through with it? When your livelihood is your body and your body is betraying you? Best-case scenario, working a match in that shape is a cry for help.

Leati Joseph "Joe" Anoai was born May 25, 1985. American professional wrestler, former professional Canadian football player, and a member of the Anoai family. He is signed to WWE, where he performs under the ring name Roman Reigns, and he is the current WWE World Heavyweight Champion in his third reign. After playing collegiate football for Georgia Tech, Anoai started his professional football career with brief off-season stints with the Minnesota Vikings and Jacksonville Jaguars of the National Football League (NFL) in 2007. He then played a full season for the Canadian Football League's Edmonton Eskimos in 2008 before his release and retirement from football.

Took me a long time, a lot of years, to put the past where it belonged so it didn’t screw with my present every day anymore.” She looked over at him. “How’d you do it?” “I decided to focus only on what was right in front of me at that moment rather than putting it in the context of what’d happened before. Not sure that makes sense…” “No, it does, but I still don’t see how you can just do that.” “You make up your mind to look ahead, not back. There’s not one damned thing you can change about the past, but the future is yours to map out as you see fit.” “That sounds great, but how?” “You wake up every day with a choice about how you want to live. Do you want to be mired in a past you can’t change or focused on a future that you direct?” “You make it sound so simple.” “It is once you get the hang of it. You ever heard the saying that it takes three weeks to create a habit, whether it’s a good habit or a bad one?” “Yes, I’ve read about that.” “Usually, they’re talking about going to the gym or starting to walk or dieting or whatever. In this case, you wake up and decide to focus on all the positive things you can think of. You give them your full attention for all your waking hours. Whether it’s your work or your child or your garden or whatever brings you peace, pleasure and prosperity. I love my job. I love my studio and the people who work with me there. I love doing things to grow the business, such as partnering with the McCarthys to offer weekend getaways that include a tattoo. That was my idea, by the way. Brings in some business in the off-season. It gives me a kick to think of stuff like that. I love my art and my cross-stitching, my garden and puttering around my house. Those things bring me joy.

Every sport has an off-season, but pro women hoopers often work year-round. We earn about 250 times less than NBA players and have a hard cap on our salaries. In the WNBA that year I made around $220,000. Overseas, I earned a million plus. That pay gap is why I was in Russia in the first place.

This project may be preceeded or followed by the clothing organization steps found in the next section of this book. ORGANIZE CLOTHING examples of storage bedroom closet (walk-in or standard) dresser armoire underbed storage boxes trunk or storage ottoman nightstand supplies needed trash bags/recycling bin, donation box, relocation box, fix-it box spray cleaner and cleaning cloth broom and dust pan and/or vacuum storage containers label maker and/or tags to hang from containers/baskets time commitment 4–10 hours quick assessment questions What are the main categories of clothing? What items could be placed in off-season storage? What types of things need quick and instant access? potential goals for this space make getting ready in the morning a snap make it easier to put away clothing in the evening and on laundry day get rid of clothing that no longer fits create a new wardrobe make the closet visually appealing quick-toss list any clothing that is stained or ripped shoes that are past their prime clothing left over from the high school years (unless, of course, you’re still in high school) souvenir t-shirts broken jewelry socks without mates underwear that has lost its elasticity dry-cleaner hangers and plastic bags storage containers bins/boxes/baskets that are open-top bins/boxes/baskets with lids

You have to pay attention to the rhythms and cycles of your creative output and learn to be patient in the off-seasons. You have to give yourself time to change and observe your own patterns. “Live in each season as it passes,

If I ever had a shot at something extraordinary, then maybe, just maybe, it’s with her.

We can be something real, you and me.

We’ll be by the refreshment table reining in your mothers. Just holler if you need anything. A balloon, a cute Labrador, a rose, maybe champagne. It will be a great hour that makes up for the lack of wedding festivities that you denied your mother who labored for hours to bring you into the world, only to have her son elope.” Ford smiles tightly.

You’re not just anyone. You were always going to be more than something to me.

I warned you that your hockey-playing son should stay away from my little girl,” he seethes to his friend. Ford rolls his eyes. “Yeah, when they were teenagers! They are legal adults now who drink and know how to sign their name on a marriage certificate. We need to focus on the now. They’re married.” “Yeah, and your son didn’t have the respect to speak to me before he made my daughter his bride!” My father is furious. “I would have. It’s just…passion and love caught us in a moment,” Connor explains. My dad rubs his temples. “Do. Not. Speak of passion and my daughter to me. If it weren’t for the fact that you are Ford’s son, then I swear I would kill you right now.

I swear the only reason I’m here is because orgasms are essential for living and tequila made you my husband.

I’m going all in on proving to you that we might as well admit this thing between us and knock down a wall or two. If you’re going to be a little slower to step up and be a team player, then so be it.

Babe, you know we can always fuck angry. But my money is on that you want me to fuck you like we matter, because we do.

I’ve always been waiting for you, you’re my end game.

This woman is sexual dynamite with a heart of gold. And I hate the fucking guy who will claim forever with her. But right now, she is mine.

You’re the guy who doesn’t want a future with anyone, which is almost hysterical, because you’re the guy who made me realize that I’m ready to have a future with someone.

Our lines…they’re blurry.” “I agree…but this feels right.

What are we doing?” … “Everything we never meant to.

- Do you think we're going to hang out after this? - U and me? Of course! I mean, if you want. - We never have before. We never even talk off-season. - I didn't think you wanted to. I figured you had plenty of winter-spring-summer friends... I thought I was just u Patch friend.

So your first step to exchanging properly no matter where you want to go is to figure out the best week you have access to by using the Travel Demand index and book that week one year in advance for the biggest size unit you can. Once you have that week you immediately call and deposit that or at least ten months in advance. That will give you your maximum trade value and get you just about anywhere you need to go in most time periods. Then he said the next hardest part to trading and the most frustrating for people is the fact that you will almost never get your request by calling up on the phone or going online and asking for what you want and expect to get it for when you want on that phone call or search. Nothing good is ever available right when you call and the likelihood of what you want when you want it to be available at the time you call in is highly unlikely. This is what most people do and that is the reason most people think they can never get the exchange they want. It is also the worst way to get an exchange especially since they usually don’t follow the first step which is the most important. He said if you only booked your week two to four months in advance for an off-season week you will never get what you want. The only way to get what you want, is to book that prime week and then when you want to go somewhere you will need to put in an Ongoing Search for the property or multiple locations that you want. While it is not ideal, as everyone would like to just call up and go where they want when they want, it doesn’t work like that. However, the search does have a high success rate, such as Interval International’s 97% confirmation rate on ongoing searches. The thing is most people just don’t like to wait. They want to know immediately. The thing that they don’t realize is that most of the time, it’s within two weeks of when you asked to receive a confirmation number for your stay. So, as long as you put in a good week to trade that has enough trading power to go where you want to go and then you put in an ongoing search, you have an exponentially larger chance of getting the week you want, where you want. Then you can increase your chances by doing the normal things like going off-season, picking multiple resorts or dates, and a few other factors that can get your trade faster. Since he had taught me these ways on how to trade and I started doing more research, I found out that it actually is in the Interval International and RCI magazines on how to do it properly. I just realized that I had never really read them or I read them, but didn’t understand what they meant and how much of an impact each one thing could have on each other.

Whereas other firms had operated in specialized niches—lobbying, consulting, public relations—Black, Manafort and Stone bundled all those services under one roof, a deceptively simple move that would eventually help transform Washington.”17 They worked for politicians during the campaign season, performing their political strategists’ magic. In the off-season, they worked for business clients who paid them to call the very politicians they’d helped elect.

Marjorie did not like the look of them at all. They were going to hassle her. They were doing it already, just by being there. She didn’t like their faces, the smiles that were really nothing more than leers. She didn’t like the close-set eyes, the lean, unshaven cheeks, the wind-burned, sunburned high foreheads. Even at a glance you could tell they were brothers. They had the same brutal, inbred faces. Like the houses, like the trees, the people out here looked stunted, almost stillborn, as if centuries of social immobility had thinned their seed, bled them dry. She had seen the look in people along the highway, in the face of the fat woman inside the store. To her eyes, used to diversity, there was a troubling uniformity about them all, something that spoke of isolation, and a dull and thoughtless cruelty.

I have a good reason for choosing off-season clothing for their first foray into this tidying gala. It’s the easiest category for tuning in to one’s intuition concerning what feels good.

The custom of storing seasonal clothes is behind the times. With the introduction of air-conditioning and heating, our homes are less subject to the weather outside. It’s not uncommon now to see people wearing T-shirts indoors even in winter. So it’s time to abandon this custom and keep all our clothes ready to be used year-round, regardless of the season. My clients love this approach, especially because they can grasp at all times exactly what clothes they have. No difficult techniques are required. All you need to do is organize your clothes on the premise that you aren’t going to put off-season clothes in storage. The trick is not to overcategorize. Divide your clothes roughly into “cotton-like” and “wool-like” materials when you put them in the drawer.

The cottage was a hunting lodge--a cabin lacking a single flourish that turned it from a functional building into a vacation residence. It was off-season, but these places often did double-duty as a “getaway from the kids and the missus” refuge for men. I have to admit, I don’t get that. Shouldn’t you be able to take some time to yourself without lying about “going hunting” for the weekend? Maybe my expectations for honesty are too high. I’ve been told that before.

In the offseason, you should be working, reading, developing, growing, evolving, and becoming your best self. 

Let us turn now to a study of a small Newfoundland fishing village. Fishing is, in England at any rate – more hazardous even than mining. Cat Harbour, a community in Newfoundland, is very complex. Its social relationships occur in terms of a densely elaborate series of interrelated conceptual universes one important consequence of which is that virtually all permanent members of the community are kin, ‘cunny kin’, or economic associates of all other of the 285 permanent members. The primary activity of the community is cod fishing. Salmon, lobster, and squid provide additional sources of revenue. Woodcutting is necessary in off-seasons. Domestic gardening, and stints in lumber camps when money is needed, are the two other profitable activities. The community's religion is reactionary. Women assume the main roles in the operation though not the government of the churches in the town. A complicated system of ‘jinking’ – curses, magic, and witchcraft – governs and modulates social relationships. Successful cod fishing in the area depends upon highly developed skills of navigation, knowledge of fish movements, and familiarity with local nautical conditions. Lore is passed down by word of mouth, and literacy among older fishermen is not universal by any means. ‘Stranger’ males cannot easily assume dominant positions in the fishing systems and may only hire on for salary or percentage. Because women in the community are not paid for their labour, there has been a pattern of female migration out of the area. Significantly, two thirds of the wives in the community are from outside the area. This has a predictable effect on the community's concept of ‘the feminine’. An elaborate anti-female symbolism is woven into the fabric of male communal life, e.g. strong boats are male and older leaky ones are female. Women ‘are regarded as polluting “on the water” and the more traditional men would not consider going out if a woman had set foot in the boat that day – they are “jinker” (i.e., a jinx), even unwittingly'. (It is not only relatively unsophisticated workers such as those fishermen who insist on sexual purity. The very skilled technicians drilling for natural gas in the North Sea affirm the same taboo: women are not permitted on their drilling platform rigs.) It would be, however, a rare Cat Harbour woman who would consider such an act, for they are aware of their structural position in the outport society and the cognition surrounding their sex….Cat Harbour is a male-dominated society….Only men can normally inherit property, or smoke or drink, and the increasingly frequent breach of this by women is the source of much gossip (and not a negligible amount of conflict and resentment). Men are seated first at meals and eat together – women and children eating afterwards. Men are given the choicest and largest portions, and sit at the same table with a ‘stranger’ or guest. Women work extremely demanding and long hours, ‘especially during the fishing season, for not only do they have to fix up to 5 to 6 meals each day for the fishermen, but do all their household chores, mind the children and help “put away fish”. They seldom have time to visit extensively, usually only a few minutes to and from the shop or Post Office….Men on the other hand, spend each evening arguing, gossiping, and “telling cuffers”, in the shop, and have numerous “blows” (i.e., breaks) during the day.’ Pre-adolescents are separated on sexual lines. Boys play exclusively male games and identify strongly with fathers or older brothers. Girls perform light women's work, though Faris indicates '. . . often openly aspire to be male and do male things. By this time they can clearly see the privileged position of the Cat Harbour male….’. Girls are advised not to marry a fisherman, and are encouraged to leave the community if they wish to avoid a hard life. Boys are told it is better to leave Cat Harbour than become fishermen....

Or, worse yet, when you meet a woman, and start something with her, the first woman you ever really loved; and then after a brief off-season you return to McMurdo an your reunion with her only to have her dump you on arrival as if your Kiwi idyll had never happened. Or when you see her around town soon after that, trolling with the best of tremor when you find out that some people are calling you "the sandwich," in reference to the ice women's old joke that bringing a boyfriend to Antarctica is like bringing a sandwich to a smorgasbord. No that's heartbreak for you.

Or, worse yet, when you meet a woman, and start something with her, the first woman you ever really loved; and then after a brief off-season you return to McMurdo an your reunion with her only to have her dump you on arrival as if your Kiwi idyll had never happened. Or when you see her around town soon after that, trolling with the best of them; or when you find out that some people are calling you 'the sandwich,' in reference to the ice women's old joke that bringing a boyfriend to Antarctica is like bringing a sandwich to a smorgasbord. Now that's heartbreak for you.

store only small, specific off-season items, such as bathing suits and sun hats for the summer season, and mufflers, mittens, and earmuffs for the winter season.

The Fire-Eaters were a special elite-level team that played after the regular season ended. They had top-notch training and the off-season games added a lot to a player’s performance when the regular season rolled around. Problem? You can’t join the Fire-Eaters. They have to pick you.

Last year, I changed from an allround good, thoughtful bloke to one with a tad more drive. This year, during phase B of the changes, I’ve come out of my off-season cocoon as a dead-set aggressive wanker. Both stages of this metamorphosis can be attributed to the provocateur Ms Leigh. God help us if I ever get to phase C. It’s bound to be tragic. I’ve never felt this lethal in my life. Jerome Kremers, book 2, TEAM PURSUIT

He’s a burly man with sparse white hair and a white beard who looks like Santa might look if Santa, in the off-season, carried a tackle box.

Four & Twenty is a seasonal bakeshop- it is Brooklyn, after all, where seasonal, local, and sustainable are the altars at which all foodies worship. The sisters aren't opposed to experimenting with off-season or foraged ingredients but prefer following the popular credo that just so happened to also be their grandma's philosophy: "It just feels better," Emily explains. "Local is so much better and tastier." While they constantly develop new recipes- honey rosemary shoofly, chocolate bourbon mint, strawberry kefir lime- there is one fan favorite that the Elsens make year round: the salted caramel apple pie. In a show of romanticism, Andrew and I decided to split a slice. Apple pie takes many forms: chunky fruit or dainty slices, oozing with juices, laden with spices, crumbly tops, and moist middles. Without even taking a bite, I knew this was going to be special. The thinly sliced apple rings- visible from the side but obscured from above by thick, sugar-dusted latticework- were densely stacked. Along with a commitment to seasonal fruit and local ingredients, the sisters are hell-bent on having an all-butter crust. "A good crust is a mark of someone who's paid a lot of attention and who cares about what they're making," Emily insists. They don't use Crisco or lard, no margarine or hot oil- just pure butter with a titch of apple cider vinegar to add a little tang, tenderness, and the right flake. Andrew let me take the first bite. The pie had a perfect amount of give. It was soft and juicy, but not soggy (the downfall of promising slices in lesser hands). Neither sweet nor tart, the salted caramel enrobed the fruit and added a note of savoriness. As promised, the crust was killer.

All of these vacation ideas recognize that soul-satisfying vacations—like the rest of our lives—often involve trade-offs. Plan ahead to visit during a city’s off-season “restaurant week,” and

The enlightened wrestling fan has likely spent significant amounts of time explaining to nonviewers that even though wrestling is staged, it's not fake-that no amount of planning, no amount of scripting, no amount of physical trickery or assisted landing, no amount of ring elasticity or floor mat cushion can remotely assuage the physical assault of an average wrestling match. Every night on the road ends with ice bags or painkillers or just plain old pain, the unrelenting kind, the "you sit down in your rental car and electric voltage shoots up your spine" kind of pain, and so what, you get in your car anyway and drive to the next town and work another match tomorrow night and the fans cheer but they don't _know_. And you get two or three days off after tomorrow or the next day, and let's hope to God that's enough to get you right, because then it starts all over again. And then again next week, and then for months, and if you're _lucky_-imagine that word, here of all places-if you're _lucky_ it'll keep going for years. And there's no off-season, no prolonged downtime unless, God forbid, you're seriously injured. That's reality.

I recall that in the immediate aftermath of those losses at Candlestick, I lost all healthy perspective, my ordinarily sober and sensible outlook cast to the wind like the hot dog wrappers forever swirling above the ballpark's stands. I am not proud of this. Frankly, it is embarrassing (as a graying, 48-year-old father of two, and as someone from Afghanistan, an impoverished nation unraveled by three decades of violence and human suffering) to describe the depth of emotional sting inflicted on me by those Candlestick heartbreaks. Disappointment is too bland a word, too feeble to capture the helpless despair of watching the opponent kneel in victory, the long, long offseason looming suddenly and cruelly premature.

In Japan: The shortage of wives for farmers became a rural crisis. In one village in the late 1980s, of unmarried persons between ages 25 and 39, 120 were men and only 31 were women, a ratio of 4:1. Some Japanese villages organized to find wives for their bachelors. One mountain village placed newspaper ads, promising free winter skiing vacations to all young women who visited and agreed to meet its men. Over a fiveyear period, 300 women responded, but none became wives of a village man. In another mountain village of 7,000, there were three bachelors for every unmarried woman, so the local government became a marriage agent. It brought in 22 women from the Philippines, South Korea, Thailand, and other Asian countries to marry its men, many in their 40s and 50s. Some marriages endured, but others ended in divorce because of the labor demands of farm life, the burden wives bore in caring for their husband’s elderly parents, and cultural differences. Small businesses developed that offered counseling services for bicultural couples and served as marriage brokers to match Japanese men with foreign women. Even today, many Japanese farm men remain bachelors. Farming in Japan is now primarily a part-time occupation—farmers find off-season jobs in construction or other tasks, unable to make an acceptable living even with government subsidies. And farming is now largely performed by older persons. For example, in one important rice-growing area, between 1980 and 2003, the number of people making most of their money from farming fell by 56 percent, and the number of people between ages 15 and 59 fell by 83 percent. There was one increase, though: there were 600 more farmers older than 70 in 2003 than in 1980.

Since Parcells joined the NFL in 1980, his off-season workload has multiplied. Downtime eventually almost disappeared thanks to the Senior Bowl, the combine, free agency, the draft, minicamps, and training camp. Coaches also needed to factor in time to deal with unpredictable developments, or as Donald Rumsfeld, the former secretary of defense, might call them, known unknowns. Before the twilight of his NFL career, Parcells has especially relished his off-season football activities. But now at sixty-five, he had little appetite to prepare another team, especially given the chance of ultimately being undermined by a player flubbing a routine task in a game's pivotal moment. 'That was what got me,' he says, 'because now it's another year; we've got to go through a whole new cycle, when we were right there. We had a chance to win it and go to Chicago and beat the Bears. They weren't that good.

Once, a cardinal flew down into the chimney in the living room, and I remembered how startling it had been to see this beautiful, bright red bird perched in the ashes. It was just like this. The ruin of my shitty Ford just highlighted the contrast, how out of place she was. Women like Alexis didn’t live in ashes. They didn’t live in small towns in the middle of nowhere where you couldn’t get a damn steak in the off-season. They didn’t ride around in tired work trucks and hold hands with men who had calluses. They lived in big cities with accomplished men who had important jobs.