Referee Someone Quotes

Nondefensive phrases: • Really? • I see. • I understand. • That’s interesting. • That’s your choice. • I’m sure you see it that way. • You’re entitled to your opinion. • I’m sorry you’re upset. • Let’s talk about this when you’re calmer. • Yelling and threatening aren’t going to solve anything. • This subject is off-limits. • I don’t choose to have this conversation. • Guilt peddling and playing the pity card are not going to work anymore. • I know you’re upset. • This is nonnegotiable. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, these phrases will act like a referee coming in to stop a fight. They nip conflict in the bud. You won’t need them when someone is pleasant, but they’re essential when you’re being blamed, bullied, attacked, or criticized.

You gotta go and get angry at all of my honesty You know I try but I don't do too well with apologies I hope I don't run out of time, can someone call a referee? Cause I just need one more shot at forgiveness I know you know that I made those mistakes maybe once or twice By once or twice I mean maybe a couple of hundred times So let me, oh let me redeem, oh redeem myself tonight Cause I just need one more shot at second chances Is it too late now to say sorry? Cause I'm missing more than just your body Is it too late now to say sorry? Yeah I know that I let you down Is it too late to say that I'm sorry now? I'm sorry, yeah Sorry, yeah Sorry Yeah I know that I let you down Is it too late to say sorry now? I'll take every single piece of the blame if you want me to But you know that there is no innocent one in this game for two I'll go, I'll go and then you go, you go out and spill the truth Can we both say the words and forget this? Is it too late now to say sorry? Cause I'm missing more than just your body Is it too late now to say sorry? Yeah I know that I let you down Is it too late to say that I'm sorry now? I'm not just trying to get you back on me Cause I'm missing more than just your body Is it too late now to say sorry? Yeah I know that I let you down Is it too late to say sorry now? I'm sorry, yeah Sorry, oh Sorry Yeah I know that I let you down Is it too late to say sorry now? I'm sorry, yeah Sorry, oh Sorry Yeah I know that I let you down Is it too late to say sorry now?

On the ball field, a twelve-year-old might care about nothing but winning. And not just winning, but beating the opposition. He’ll impugn the referee’s motives, stomp on toes, and hold nothing back in order to win. That same kid doesn’t care at all about being at the top of his class, but he cares a lot about who sits next to him on the bus. In the jazz band, someone is keeping track of how many solos he gets, and someone else wants to be sure she’s helping keep the group in sync. The people you’re seeking to serve in this moment: What are they measuring? If you want to market to someone who measures dominion or affiliation, you’ll need to be aware of what’s being measured and why. “Who eats first” and “who sits closest to the emperor” are questions that persist to this day. Both are status questions. One involves dominion; the other involves affiliation.

Sports in general, and hockey specifically, forced those lessons on us all, and they stuck with us for a lifetime. No coaches to tell you what to do. No parents to tell you how to behave. No referees to tell you what’s fair. And no linesmen to break up trouble if someone loses his temper. Yes, that’s freedom. But it’s also responsibility—we had to figure things out for ourselves or there wouldn’t have been those day-long games we loved so much. Unfortunately, in many respects those long-ago days are a world removed from what we see today.

She stepped back into the house. “I want to show you something.” Trying to get his legs back, his head wobbly, and his internal referee still giving him the eight count, Myron followed her silently up the stairway. She led him down a darkened corridor lined with modern lithographs. She stopped, opened a door, and flipped on the lights. The room was teenage-cluttered, as if someone had put all the belongings in the center of the room and dropped a hand grenade on them. The posters on the walls—Michael Jordan, Keith Van Horn, Greg Downing, Austin Powers, the words YEAH, BABY! across his middle in pink tie-dye lettering—had been hung askew, all tattered corners and missing pushpins. There was a Nerf basketball hoop on the closet door. There was a computer on the desk and a baseball cap dangling from a desk lamp. The corkboard had a mix of family snapshots and construction-paper crayons signed by Jeremy’s sister, all held up by oversized pushpins. There were footballs and autographed baseballs and cheap trophies and a couple of blue ribbons and three basketballs, one with no air in it. There were stacks of computer-game CD-ROMs and a Game Boy on the unmade bed and a surprising amount of books, several opened and facedown. Clothes littered the floor like war wounded; the drawers were half open, shirts and underwear hanging out like they’d been shot mid-escape. The room had the slight, oddly comforting smell of kids’ socks.

You can see the all-encompassing play-crushing power of safetyism in figure 3.10, sent to me by a friend in Berkeley, California. The administrators at this elementary school don’t trust their students to play tag without adult guidance, because . . . what if there’s a dispute? What if someone is excluded? The school offers similarly inane lists of instructions and prohibitions to help children play other games. In the rules for playing touch football, the sign says football can only be played if an adult is supervising and refereeing the game. The administrators seem to be committed to preventing the sorts of conflicts that are inherent in human interaction, and that would teach children how to manage their own affairs, resolve differences, and prepare for life in a democratic society.

We decided to have some fun in the final match of the season against Luton. A few months earlier we'd given 'the 50p game' a try, and with nothing riding on the Luton result we thought it was time to revisit it. The rules are simple: someone walks out onto a pitch with a 50 pence piece in their hand, which has to be passed among teammates while the game is going on. You can't give it back to the player who has just given it to you, and whoever ends up with the 50p at the full time whistle has to get a round of drinks in after the match. Its obviously all supposed to go discreetly, but against Luton we got caught by the referee, who took the coin off us and handed it over on the sideline — a bit like a teacher might confiscate something in a classroom. When we got a throw-in by the dugout, Danny, our kit man, gave the 50p to the player taking it and we carried the game on. At one points, Mangs went down injured when I had the coin, so I saw it as a perfect opportunity to hand it over. I think Scotty Davies, the goalkeeper, ended up with the 50p at the end. And that was Fleetwood in a nutshell: brilliant but mental.

And so it was. When a society no longer shares common values, beliefs, traditions, languages, dreams—when society is simply a collection of strangers fighting for themselves, when "we the people" becomes "me, myself, and I"—there is friction. They rub each other the wrong way. They disagree. Your way or my way but never our way. But which way? They demand that judges decide. To referee their lives. To decide right or wrong, legal or illegal, winners and losers. Someone must win, someone must lose, and someone must decide. In America, that someone is a judge.

I want to disagree with Mom, but part of me concurs that a Lanky invasion of Earth would be a mercy killing of our species. We’ve spent most of our history trying to exterminate each other anyway. This way, we’ll at least have some dispassionate outside referee settling all of humanity’s old scores permanently. No more generational feuds, no more ancient grudges, no more pointless revenge carried out against people who inherited some old guilt from their great-grandparents. We will all just go down the path on which we’ve sent so many species ourselves, and we’ll just be a note in someone else’s xenobiology textbooks, listed under the header “EXTINCT.

And who was I? Not nearly as much of a loner and outsider as I’d always thought. A bit odd, but others were more odd. And who else was I? A member of an expedition, or no, someone who’d been on an expedition all by himself, and after forging his way through all sorts of difficulties had come back here to civilization to freshen up, for the time being, before his next one-man venture. And who else? At first sight a disturbed person, who, when you got to know him, seemed much more normal, indeed the only normal person among a thousand, while the other nine hundred and ninety-nine eventually turned out to be as mad as hatters. And who else was I? (As if, having seen my double, I suddenly couldn’t find out enough about myself - couldn’t get enough of myself.) Let me be someone else as well, play someone else: a pioneer, a deserter, a soccer referee or at least a linesman. And what was I like, considering my double there in the restroom’s white neon glare? Not special. Not that bad. Maybe somewhat deficient in that certain something, but not entirely deficient either. Far from being a star, but if an idiot, a village idiot, not a provincial or city idiot. And what else was I like? And in what way? And in what other way? Well, what d’you know! Yes, just look at that! You didn’t expect that, did you? Look, just look! Yes, just look. Look!

While she was downstairs she could have the illusion that her mother was quietly sleeping in the bedroom; now, faced with the empty bed and the need to clear it, she had to recognise that she was alone. Slowly the tears came, accompanied by great helpless sobs. Instead of having someone to lean on, to advise her, to bully her into staying on her feet when life seemed impossibly hard, she herself would have to be the adviser, the kind helper, the referee of family quarrels; hers would be the knee on to which grandchildren would climb to be comforted, hers would be the shoulder on which the women would weep out their bereavements and all the myriad sorrows of being mams. "Aye, Mam," she whispered brokenly, "I don't know whether I can do it.

Like other eastern tribes, the Cherokee played a ball game similar to lacrosse. Called "the friend or companion of battle," or simply "little brother of war," these stickball games were very rough--there were often broken bones, torn muscles, cuts, and bruises. Elaborate rituals preceded the game. If someone wanted a contest, he gathered his friends and sent a challenge to another town. If the town accepted the challenge, people were selected for various tasks: an elderly man to oversee the game, a person to sing for the players, another to whoop, and a musician for seven women who danced on the seventh night of preparations for the game. The night before the game, players danced together around the fire with their ball sticks, pretending that they were playing. Then they hung up their sticks, went to a brisk stream, and bathed seven times, after which they went to bed. At daybreak, the shaman took them to the creek again. During their preparations the players were not allowed to go near women and they could not eat meat or anything hot or salty. Seven women were chosen to prepare meals of cold bread and a drink of parched cornmeal and water. The men could not be served by women, so boys brought the food to them. During the day the men were scratched with rattlesnake fangs or turkey quills to toughen them for the "little brother of war." The two teams gathered on a large field where goalposts were set up at each end. Players paired off, the referee threw the ball up in the air between the two captains, and a mad scramble ensued. The game was "anything goes," and there was biting, gouging, choking, scratching, twisting arms and legs, and banging each other with the wooden rackets. The object of the game was to carry the ball between the goals twelve times. The first team with twelve wooden pegs stuck in the ground by the shaman won the game. There was no time limit and often the game went on until dark. There was also no time-out or substitution. If a player was injured, he and the opponent with whom he was paired both left the game. Cherokee gathered from throughout the mountains to watch and bet on these hotly contested games.

They approached the referee and covered their faces, then pulled their swords. Dariana’s eyes flared as she realized what was in Sumi’s hands. “I will feast on your blood, human.” Sumi laughed. “Someone cue my fear pheromones.