Rookie Of The Year Quotes

I spent six years trying to get over you, and it didn’t take. Our time is now.

slaying me all those years ago. For tossing over a decade’s worth of friendship and love in the garbage. Throwing me away like I was worthless.

I wasn’t sure if I’d kiss her or scream at her for slaying me all those years ago. For tossing over a decade’s worth of friendship and love in the garbage. Throwing me away like I was worthless.

When it comes to signing up new talent, that's what I'm looking for-- not just someone who has the skill, but someone built for this life. Someone who has the work ethic, the drive. The gift that Jordan had wasn't just that he was willing to do the work, but he loved doing it, because he could feel himself getting stronger, ready for anything. He left the game and came back and worked just as hard as he did when he started. He came into the game as Rookie of the Year, and he finished the last playoff game of his career with a shot that won the Bulls their sixth championship. THAT'S THE KIND OF CONSISTENCY THAT YOU CAN ONLY GET BY ADDING DEAD-SERIOUS DISCIPLINE TO WHATEVER TALENT YOU HAVE.

In spring training prior to his 1995 rookie season, Chipper was already so confident in who he was as a player that he famously deadpanned to veteran slugger Fred McGriff, after the Crime Dog grounded into an inning-ending double play, these two words: “Rally killer.” His confidence carried over to the field, just as it had since he began playing as a kid—he batted .265, and he led all rookies with 23 home runs, 87 runs, and 86 RBIs. Hideo Nomo was Rookie of the Year for the Dodgers, but Chipper and the Braves were World Champions.

Oh this young man has had a very trying rookie season, with the litigation, the notoriety, his subsequent deportation to Canada and that country's refusal to accept him, well, I guess that's more than most 21-year-olds can handle... Ogie Ogilthorpe!

No one ever seems to question why the burden is all on the teacher to do the engaging, when we ask so little of the students, or for that matter, their parents.” Her vehemence startled me. “I never thought of it that way,” I told her. “No,” she said, not unkindly. “But I promise, you will.

And whether or not the educators who are trying to raise up America's students can actually set and meet higher academic standards, our cultural values make their job next to impossible. It's so much easier for pundits and politicians to point out figures and blame the people who are in the trenches every day than it is to get in there with them, or even to find out what actually goes on in those trenches. It's so much easier for parents to blame teachers when their kids get in trouble than to do the heavy lifting required at home to keep kids on track. And it's so much easier for us as a nation to cross our fingers and hope that we'll "get lucky" with the innovative "solutions" being tested on America's schools today than it is for us to roll up our sleeves and invest our own time, talent, and money in the schools that are even now-- with or without us-- shaping our nation's future.

She tasted like the happiest years of his life. She tasted like his.

What was it that teacher in SLC warned me about at the beginning of the year? “Adoption fantasy,” he called it.

I know what my job is, and I'm damned good at it." When he snorted she came back down two steps. She came down slowly, her movements deliberate, because her own temper was much too close to the boil. "Good enough to have figured out why you've hated the sight of me since I first walked in that door. Since you understood Roarke had feelings for me. Part A was easy -- a first-year rookie could have snagged onto it. I'm a cop, and that's enough for you to hold me in contempt." He offered a thin smile. "I've had little reason to admire those in your profession." "Part B was tougher." She came down another step so that their eyes were level. "I thought I had that figured, too, but I didn't realize that Part B had a couple of stages. Stage one: I'm not one of the glamorous, well-bred stunners that Roarke socialized with. I haven't got the looks or the pedigree or the style to suit you." He felt a quick tug of shame, but inclined his head. "No, you don't. He could have had anyone, his pick of the cream of society." "But you didn't want just anyone for him, Summerset. That's stage two, and I just figured that out this morning. You resent me because I'm not Marlena. That's who you wanted for him," she said quietly as the color slipped out of his cheeks. "You hoped he'd find someone who reminded you of her, instead you got stuck with an inferior mode. Tough luck all around.

I trust who I am with Jamie. He’s known me since I was a pimply thirteen-year-old when we used to argue about video games. He doesn’t see me as Toronto’s rookie forward. He doesn’t care about my scoring average. I don’t try to impress him.” Except with my ability to deep-throat. But we won’t talk about that on prime time. “He’s your family,” Dennis suggests. “More than your real family.” “Absolutely,” I agree. “Do you think you’ll get married?” Dennis asks with a smile. “Wait—am I putting you on the spot?” That bastard. He’s poking me in a sore spot just to lock in his ratings. But I stay cool. “Oh, it’s not me you’re putting on the spot. It’s Jamie. I’d marry him in a hot second, and I’m sure he knows it.

I was distracted from the fact that I was making the classic rookie mistake: As I fell into him, I fell away from myself, almost completely. I was so grateful to him for loving me that I was perfectly happy to step into his life and leave mine behind.

You're not giving up on this, are you?" His voice was a raspy murmur, so low she had to inch closer to be sure she wouldn't miss another precious word out of his mouth. Precious, because of the story, she insisted. Everything happening right now-breathing, thinking, speaking, being-felt fraught. And exciting. This emotion racing through her veins was the most alive she'd felt in years.

Practically from the moment they’re born, kids have all these forces clamoring for their attention, begging to entertain them and sell them something. Then they come to school, where they and their parents tell administrators that it’s the teachers’ job to engage them and break through all that other stuff. As far as the kids are concerned, they’ve done their part if they show up. They sit in front of the teacher the same way they sit in front of a computer screen, waiting for that instant message.

It’s our bad luck to have teachers in this world, but since we’re stuck with them, the best we can do is hope to get a brand-new one instead of a mean old fart. New teachers don’t know the rules, so you can get away with things the old-timers would squash you for. That was my theory. So I was feeling pretty excited to start fifth grade, since I was getting a rookie teacher—a guy named Mr. Terupt. Right away, I put him to the test. If the bathroom pass is free, all you have to do is take it and go. This year, the bathrooms were right across the hall. It’s always been an easy way to get out of doing work. I can be really sneaky like that. I take the pass all the time and the teachers never notice. And like I said, Mr. Terupt was a rookie, so I knew he wasn’t going to catch me. Once you’re in the bathroom, it’s mess-around time. All the other teachers on our floor were women, so you didn’t have to worry about them barging in on you. Grab the bars to the stalls and swing. Try to touch your feet to the ceiling. Swing hard. If someone’s in the stall, it’s really funny to swing and kick his door in, especially if he’s a younger kid. If you scare him bad enough, he might pee on himself a little. That’s funny. Or if your buddy’s using the urinal, you can push him from behind and flush it at the same time. Then he might get a little wet. That’s pretty funny, too. Some kids like to plug the toilets with big wads of toilet paper, but I don’t suggest you try doing that. You can get in big trouble. My older brother told me his friend got caught and he had to scrub the toilets with a toothbrush. He said the principal made him brush his teeth with that toothbrush afterward, too. Mrs. Williams is pretty tough, but I don’t think she’d give out that kind of punishment. I don’t want to find out, either. When I came back into the classroom after my fourth or fifth trip, Mr. Terupt looked at me and said, “Boy, Peter, I’m gonna have to call you Mr. Peebody, or better yet, Peter the Pee-er. You do more peein’ than a dog walking by a mile of fire hydrants.

After a series of promotions—store manager at twenty-two, regional manager at twenty-four, director at twenty-seven—I was a fast-track career man, a personage of sorts. If I worked really hard, and if everything happened exactly like it was supposed to, then I could be a vice president by thirty-two, a senior vice president by thirty-five or forty, and a C-level executive—CFO, COO, CEO—by forty-five or fifty, followed of course by the golden parachute. I’d have it made then! I’d just have to be miserable for a few more years, to drudge through the corporate politics and bureaucracy I knew so well. Just keep climbing and don't look down. Misery, of course, encourages others to pull up a chair and stay a while. And so, five years ago, I convinced my best friend Ryan to join me on the ladder, even showed him the first rung. The ascent is exhilarating to rookies. They see limitless potential and endless possibilities, allured by the promise of bigger paychecks and sophisticated titles. What’s not to like? He too climbed the ladder, maneuvering each step with lapidary precision, becoming one of the top salespeople—and later, top sales managers—in the entire company.10 And now here we are, submerged in fluorescent light, young and ostensibly successful. A few years ago, a mentor of mine, a successful businessman named Karl, said to me, “You shouldn’t ask a man who earns twenty thousand dollars a year how to make a hundred thousand.” Perhaps this apothegm holds true for discontented men and happiness, as well. All these guys I emulate—the men I most want to be like, the VPs and executives—aren’t happy. In fact, they’re miserable.  Don’t get me wrong, they aren’t bad people, but their careers have changed them, altered them physically and emotionally: they explode with anger over insignificant inconveniences; they are overweight and out of shape; they scowl with furrowed brows and complain constantly as if the world is conspiring against them, or they feign sham optimism which fools no one; they are on their second or third or fourth(!) marriages; and they almost all seem lonely. Utterly alone in a sea of yes-men and women. Don’t even get me started on their health issues.  I’m talking serious health issues: obesity, gout, cancer, heart attacks, high blood pressure, you name it. These guys are plagued with every ailment associated with stress and anxiety. Some even wear it as a morbid badge of honor, as if it’s noble or courageous or something. A coworker, a good friend of mine on a similar trajectory, recently had his first heart attack—at age thirty.  But I’m the exception, right?

The smile wasn’t there at the beginning. In a few of the early pictures, you can see a derisive smirk beginning to curl up on the right side of Jeter’s face, almost as though the young player had found a cocky persona and was trying it on for size. Still, he didn’t use the smirk for his first glossy publicity shots with the Yankees or the pictures on his rookie-year baseball cards. Not quite scowling—although his eyebrows angle down in a V that aims the viewer’s eye at the unsmiling center of his face—he looks … serious, I guess, in those early photographs. Unswerving. A young man with an almost childish openness about his furious drive and discipline. A young man who allowed the outward projection of his public ambitions to show on his face. By 1999,

I’ve also decorated the walls with fadeless blue paper and encouraging banners, which say things like THE ONLY PLACE SUCCESS COMES BEFORE WORK IS IN THE DICTIONARY and my favorite, NO MOANING, NO GROANING—if only I could follow that advice myself!

Above the blackboard, I’ve glued big letters to spell out: TAKE PART IN YOUR OWN EDUCATION. And on the wall are listed my class rules: 1. BE here, on time and prepared 2. BE kind 3. BELIEVE

but I know what it feels like to be full of doubt about your purpose in life. You are what you do, and if you

but I know what it feels like to be full of doubt about your purpose in life. You are what you do, and if you do nothing, you can feel like nothing.

Quoted in the New York Times two days later, I called Bush’s remarks a “rookie mistake.” I went on: “I can understand the strategy on rapport, but it went too far . . . I think there is plenty of good reason not to trust President Putin. This is a man who was trained to lie.”16 I was never invited back to brief President Bush again. Years later, during Obama’s

I never saw my dad’s body. I never even saw what was left of the car. To this day I have no actual proof that he died. Who knows? It could all be an elaborate hoax. Which is exactly what it felt like for a long time. My last memory of him is shrugging into his coat at the front door, the rattle of his keys, his voice (that fades in my memory a little more each year no matter what I do) promising to be back soon. So, I made all the rookie mistakes. I’d read something and think, Dad will love this. I’d call his cell before remembering. Then there were the dreams. He was just gone. In an instant.

FOREWORD When Commander Perry opened up to the occidental world that shut-tight little island Kingdom, Japan, he did more than merely contact for our manufacturers a people who bought "Nifty Clothes," with two pair of pants. He gave us an insight into a world that was thoroughly organized and civilized long before Columbus discovered West where the East should have been. The Japanese learned much from the so-called civilized world, -but they taught us something we could never have learned from intercourse with any other nation. They gave our governmental forces of law and order a weapon that aided materially in the suppression of disorderly elements throughout our great cities. It took time, of course, to break down the prejudices that our early enforcement officers, in common with our then wild and wooly population, had against anything that was foreign. But when the great police forces of our largest metropolises realized that guns and billies alone would not be proof against big, burly lawbreakers, and that to instil respect in the hearts of "bruisers" they needed something other than armaments—pistols that could not be drawn fast enough,—they then discovered the wonder of Jiu-jitsu. They found that the wily little brown man depended on brain instead of brawn and that he had developed a Science and an Art that utilized another's strength to his own undoing. Strangely enough it was the layman who first appreciated the potential value of Jiu-jitsu. For many years before the Police Forces of our cities put a study of this Science into the training of every rookie policeman, there were physical culture experts in America who advocated the use of it by everyone who had any respect for physical prowess but who found the spirit more willing than the flesh. They showed that it needed no possession of unusual strength to overcome an opponent that depended entirely on his bulk and ferocious appearance to cow the meeker ones of the earth into submission. The Japanese, by the very fact of their small stature, are compelled to place more emphasis on strategy than on force. Thus they have thoroughly developed Jiu-jitsu and there is barely a saffron-hued tot in Japan that doesn't know something about the "Gentle-Art" as it is known. President Masaryk of Czechoslovakia, one of the world's greatest educators, who, together with millions of his enlightened and progressive countrymen, is a firm believer in "a strong mind in a strong body," sought to teach every schoolboy in his country some knowledge of the wisest of all physical sciences. While it does not itself develop and build muscle, it is an invaluable aid to the sensible use of the body. It is a form of wrestling that combines the cunning of the fox with the lithe grace and agility of the panther. It sharpens the brain and quickens the nerve centers. The man or woman who has self-respect must not sit by and permit our people to become a nation of spectators watching athletic specialists perform, while we become obese and ungainly applauders. Jiu-jitsu gives the man, woman and child, denied by nature a great frame, the opportunity to walk without fear, to resist successfully the bullies of their particular world, and the self-confidence which only a "well-armed" athlete can have. By its use, differences in weight, height and reach are practically wiped out, so that he who knows, may smilingly face superior odds and conquer.

Run BTS!, Big Hit Entertainment carried idol variety programs over into the realm of self-produced content. Making their own variety program was a huge gamble for a smaller-sized company. In the end, however, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that Run BTS! was more successful than not only Rookie King: Channel Bangtan and American Hustle Life, but all idol variety shows of the time.

He doesn’t fit into the plan I had for my freshman year of college, but then again, I’ve never really been great with plans.

If you work in a complex organization or a dynamic environment, you know that challenges are unavoidable. Still, many of us do our best to avoid them. But what happens when we try to sidestep these problems? Former NFL wide receiver Eric Boles recounted a moment of weakness in his rookie year with the New York Giants. As a wide receiver, his role was to run, catch passes, and keep running. So his mentality as a player was to avoid getting hit. But in addition to playing wide receiver, he played on special teams as a flyer. During the kickoff, his job was to sprint down the field toward the opposing players and break up their offensive formation called “the wedge”—a human wall of massive blockers who run in front of their kickoff returner to prevent the receiver from being tackled. In one of his first season games, as he came face-to-face with this enormous obstacle intent on destroying anything in its way, his instinct to avoid getting hit kicked into effect. Instead of hitting the wedge head-on, he cut to the left and ran around it. He then successfully made the tackle from behind, but on the 45-yard line rather than the 20. That 25-yard advancement ultimately cost the Giants the game and a

Ethan slumped on the bench in the change room, ignoring the ribald behavior around him after yet another foregone win. A hard slap on the rear of his head roused him and he whirled, his lip curled back as he growled menacingly. “Don’t you dare show me your teeth,” Javier warned with a dark look. He ran his hand through hair, already tousled and sweaty from the match. “What the fuck happened out there? I passed you the perfect shot, and instead of grabbing it and scoring, you crashed into the g**damn arena glass. What are you, a rookie? Been watching too many Bugs Bunny cartoons?” Heat burned Ethan’s cheeks in remembrance of his mishap before dejection— along with a large dose of disbelief— quickly set back in. “I missed. It happens and besides, it’s not like we needed the point to win.” “Of course we didn’t,” Javier replied with a scoffing snort. “But it’s the point of it. What the hell distracted you so much? And, why do you look like your best friend died, which, I might add, is an impossibility given I’m standing right beside you.” Javier grinned. “I think I found my mate,” Ethan muttered. A true beauty with light skin, a perfect oval face framed by long, brown hair and the most perfect set of rosebud lips. Javier’s face expressed shock, then glee. “Congrats, dude.” Javier slapped him hard on the back, and while the blow might have killed a human or a smaller species, it didn’t even budge Ethan. “I know you’ve been pining to settle down with someone of the fairer sex. You must be ecstatic.” “Not really.” Although he should have been. Finding one’s mate was a one in a zillion chance given how shifters were scattered across the globe. Most never even came close to finding the one fate deemed their perfect match. His friend’s jovial grin subsided. “What’s wrong? Was she, like, butt ugly? Humongous? Old? Surely she can’t be that bad?” “No, she appears perfect. Or did.” Ethan groaned as banged his head off the locker door. “I am so screwed.” A frown creased Javier’s face. “I don’t get it. I thought you wanted to find the one, you sick bastard. Settle down and pop out cubs.” Ethan looked up in time to see Javier’s mock shudder. “Me, I prefer to share my love among as many women as possible.” Javier mimed slapping an ass then humping it with a leering grin. Ethan didn’t smile at Javier’s attempt at humor even if it happened to be the truth. Javier certainly enjoyed variety where the other sex was concerned. Heck, on many an occasion he’d shared with Ethan. Tag team sessions where they both scored. Best friends who did just about everything together. Blowing out a long sigh, Ethan answered him. “I do want to find my mate, actually, I’m pretty sure I already have, but I don’t think I made a great impression. She’s the one they took out on the stretcher after the ball I missed hit her in the face.” Javier winced. “Ouch. Sucks to be you, my friend. Don’t worry, though. I’m sure she’ll forgive you in, like, fifty years.” Ethan groaned and dropped his head back into his hands. Now that I’ve found her, how do I discover who she is so I can beg her forgiveness? And even worse, how the hell do I act the part of suitor? Raised in the Alaskan wilds by a father who wasn’t all there after the death of Ethan’s mother, his education in social niceties was sadly lacking. He tended to speak with his fists more often than not. Lucky for him, when it came to women, he didn’t usually have to do a thing. Females tended to approach him for sex so they could brag afterward that they’d ridden the Kodiak and survived. Not that Ethan would ever hurt a female, even if his idea of flirty conversation usually consisted of “Suck me harder” and “Bend over.” If I add “darling” on the end, will she count it as sweet talk?

the prospect of beginning a third- act career scared me almost as much as it attracted me.

Teaching is different today. Teachers don’t just stand at the board and lecture while the kids take notes. What we’re ultimately teaching them is to teach themselves.

The guy with the buzz cut said, “I’m Casey Waterman, FBI.” “Jack Reacher, United States Army.” The guy with the hair said, “John White, CIA.” They all shook hands, and then they lapsed into the same kind of silence Reacher had heard when he stepped in. They had run out of things to say. He sat on a desk near the back of the room. Waterman was ahead of him on the left, and White was ahead of him on the right. Waterman was very still. But watchful. He was passing the time and conserving his energy. He had done so before. He was an experienced agent. No kind of a rookie. And neither was White, despite being different in every other way. White was never still. He was twitching and writhing and wringing his hands, and squinting into space, variably, focusing long, focusing short, sometimes narrowing his eyes and grimacing, looking left, looking right, as if caught in a tortuous sequence of thoughts, with no way out. An analyst, Reacher guessed, after many years in a world of unreliable data and double, triple, and quadruple bluffs. The guy was entitled to look a little agitated. No one spoke. Five

I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” “Frank Tremont, Essex County investigator.” “You new on the job, Frank?” Now he spread his hands. “Do I look new?” “No, Frank, you look like a hundred years of bad decisions, but your statement about motive would be the kind of thing some oxygen-deficient rookie might try on a brain-dead paralegal. First off—pay attention here—the loser of the fight is usually the one who seeks retribution, correct?” “Most of the time.” “Well”—Hester

Durant had a 42 point game to finish a spectacular rookie season where he averaged 20.3 points, 4.4 rebounds and 2.4 assists. He was the first rookie to average more than 20 points in a game since Carmelo Anthony (21) and LeBron James (20.9). He also became the first rookie to lead his team in scoring since Emeka Okafor and Josh Childress did it in 2004-05. As Durant won these accolades, he was knocked to his knees all year long. Durant was often criticized for flopping too much, but the truth was that he was not strong enough to stay on his feet to defend his heftier opponents. There were rumors that he couldn't even bench press 185 pounds because all he ate was chicken and candies. He was called "Starvin" and "String Bean" by his buddies because of his reed-thin 185 pound frame. Durant was so thin that Sonics Coach P.J. Carlisimo played him as a 6-9 guard at that time. Durant was also labeled as "chucker" because he took 1,366 shots from the field and made just 43%. He was just taking orders from Carlisimo, who

The U.S. just tried electing a rookie president and had six years of amateur hour. It doesn’t work.

What’s got you addled? Have you forgotten tomorrow’s our opening game?” “And the Merchant Browns have been looking good. They’d be quite happy to best us on our own field.” Carter downed the cup’s contents. “Which they will easily do if you don’t rally.” “I know.” Ducky cocked an eyebrow at him. “Who is she?” “What?” “Carter, we played college ball together for four years. You don’t make rookie mistakes like that unless you’ve got your mind on a girl.” “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve only been here a couple of days.” Ducky clapped Carter’s shoulder. “That’s never stopped you before.

Look at yourself and see if you have become what you thought you would be some years ago. If not, don't be disappointed; there is something called a miracle, and it happens unknowingly. Wait patiently for your miracle.

In one Globetrotter’s skit, it involved Globetrotter’s Captain Meadowlark Lemon collapsing on the ground, and Wilt threw him up in the air several feet high and caught him like a baby. Lemon weighed 210 lbs. Lemon, and other people including Arnold Schwarzenegger, said that Wilt was the strongest athlete that ever lived. On March 9, 2000, his number 13 was retired by the Globetrotters. Wilt’s NBA Career Accomplishments On October 24, 1959 Wilt finally made his NBA debut. Wilt played for the then, “Philadelphia Warriors.” Wilt immediately became the league’s top earner making $30,000 topping Bob Cousy who was making $25,000. The $30,000 is equivalent to $263,000 in today’s currency as per the year 2019. In Wilt’s 1959-1960 season, which was his rookie year, his team made the playoffs. The Warriors beat the Syracuse Nationals then had to go on to play the Eastern Conference Champions, the Boston Celtics. Coach Red Auerbach strategized his forward Tom Heinsohn to commit fouls on Wilt. When the Warriors shot free throws, Heinsohn grabbed and pushed Wilt to stop him from getting back on defense, so quickly. Wilt was a prolific shot blocker, and this allowed Celtics to score quickly without Wilt protecting the basket. The Warriors lost the series 4 games to two after Tom Heinsohn got a last second tip in to seal the win of the series for the Celtics. As a rookie Wilt shocked Warriors' fans by saying he was thinking of retiring from basketball. He was tired of being double- and triple-teamed, and of teams fouling him very hard. Wilt was afraid that he would lose his temper one day which he did in the playoff series versus Boston. Wilt punched Heinsohn and injured his hand. Wilt played for The Philadelphia Warriors, who then relocated to San Francisco, The Philadelphia 76ers, and The Los Angeles Lakers. He won one title with the 76ers then one with the Lakers. First NBA game Wilt scored 43 points and snatched 28 rebounds. Grabbed his rookie career high of 43 rebounds in a win over the New York Knicks.

Here is a detailed report from the Walter Reed pathology lab. Their examination was most helpful in giving us a lead for identification." The President looked at him in surprise. "You identified them?" "It was the analysis of the borscht paste that opened the door." "Borscht what?" "You recall that the Dade County coroner fixed death by hypothermia, or freezing?" "Yes." "Well, borscht paste is a godawful food supplement given to Russian cosmonauts. The stomachs of the three corpses were loaded with the stuff." "You're telling me that Raymond LeBaron and his crew were exchanged for three dead Soviet cosmonauts?" Emmett nodded. "We were even able to put a name on them through a defector, a former flight surgeon with the Russian space program. He'd examined each of them on several occasions." "When did he defect?" "He came over to our side in August of '87." "A little over two years ago." "That's correct," Emmett acknowledged. "The names of the cosmonauts found in LeBaron's blimp are Sergei Zochenko, Aleksandr Yudenich, and Ivan Ronsky. Yudenich was a rookie, but Zochenko and Ronsky were both veterans with two space flights apiece.

For the last three years, he’d held his body as taut as a bowstring. He couldn’t imagine ever feeling at ease again. That was one more reason why the notion of sex with someone new was so difficult. Letting go like that required a level of surrender he wasn’t sure he had in him to give. Trust in another person to see you at your most vulnerable and not take advantage.

Implied volatility is expressed as a percentage of the stock price, indicating a one standard deviation move over the course of a year

Now imagine a company that has created an automotive product allowing you to only change the oil in your car once every year. That would be a pretty amazing product. Let’s say you can drive up to fifteen thousand miles between oil changes. Incredible. The problem is, nobody has heard of this company. A rookie mistake would be to “brand” the company rather than “market” the product.

Acevedo

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I have probably seen the airline belt buckle demonstration 400 times, maybe more. They won’t even start the airplane safety demonstration until everyone has their seat buckle on. That's weird. Here’s my suggestion. We are all savvy, digital travelers, tracked by the FAA by our drivers licenses (used for operating automobiles, where we also have seatbelts). We shouldn’t be penalized (or paralyzed) by watching the darn seatbelt buckle demo after we’re already buckled in. Create boarding group “R” for Rookie. Before boarding, everyone who hasn’t flown 5 times within the last 10 years has to get in a room in the departure lounge to have the mandatory seatbelt buckle demo privately, including the “helpful” tips about the direction of roller board wheels (pointing out), and how to pull the strap and inflate the life vest.

There are times when teachers have to let some things go in the pursuit of a greater good.

ONE REASON it’s hard for both teachers and students is that there’s so little parental backup. Which is not to say that the parents are always missing in action. Sometimes they’re present to a fault.

He doesn’t know what to do at first, but then he starts to throw them back in the water one by one. Another man comes by and says to him, “What are you doing? There are so many, you’re not making much of a difference.” The first man bends and picks up another starfish, throws it in the water, and says, “Made a difference to that one!

I try to explain the nature of the girls he had the run-in with. “This is cultural. This is how they communicate. It’s what they see at home and in the media. They’re just kids.

teaching is not a popularity contest. It’s about getting them involved in their own education.

What we’re ultimately teaching them is to teach themselves.

I’m haunted by one particular research finding I learned during orientation, that students who don’t read over summer vacation can lose as much as a whole grade’s reading level.

There is one moment in the film, though, that resonates with me in a way I cannot explain to the girls. Swank’s character, Erin, is arguing with her husband, who just does not understand her all-consuming zeal for teaching. Erin turns to him and says, “I don’t know, but in that classroom my life makes sense.

NOBODY CAN PREDICT WHO’LL MAKE it through BUD/S. The brass tries to figure it out; they bring in psychologists and boost the number of guys beginning the process, hoping more SEALs will be left standing at the end. They tweak the design to create more equal opportunity for minorities, but all that happens is that the instructors do to the students exactly what was done to them, and always 80 percent don’t make it. We have more white SEALs simply because more white guys try out. Eighty percent of white guys fail, 80 percent of Filipinos fail, 80 percent of black guys fail. And the irony is, the Navy doesn’t want an 80 percent failure rate. There can’t be too many SEALs. We’re always undermanned. From the beginning of boot camp, the instructors try separating guys who want to be SEALs. They put them together, feed them better, give them workouts designed to prepare them for BUD/S. These promising rookies get in better shape, are better nourished, and are psychologically primed to go. Then they’re sent to SEAL training and 80 percent fail. No matter what the Navy process tweakers do, they can’t crack it. You’d think the Olympic swimmer would make it. You’d think the pro-football player would make it. But they don’t—well, 80  percent don’t. In my experience, the one category of people who get reliably crushed in BUD/S are that noble demographic, the loudmouths. They’re usually the first to ring the bell. As for who will make it, all I can say is: Are you the person who can convince your body that it can do anything you ask it to? Who can hit the wall and say, “What wall?” That strength of mind isn’t associated with any ethnicity or level of skin pigmentation. It’s not a function of size or musculature or IQ. In the end, it’s sheer cussedness, and I’m guessing you’re either born that way or you never get there.

In the aftermath of his sizzling four-game summer league run, Bryant expected to join the team and immediately emerge as a superstar. Only, well, he did something extraordinarily stupid. Because Bryant was young and dumb and a 24/7 hoops junkie, on the afternoon of September 2 he visited the famed pickup courts of Venice Beach to get in a few runs. After leaping at the hoop to tip-dunk the ball, he fell toward the pavement and tried to catch himself with his left wrist. His 200-pound body landed atop his arms, and moments later he saw three knots bulging below his hand. The wrist was broken—and Jerry West was dumbfounded. He greeted the news of the malady with stunned silence, responding to Gary Vitti, the team’s trainer, with a blank stare. “He was doing what?” West asked. “Playing basketball at Venice,” Vitti explained. “Wait,” West said. “Wait, wait. Wait. What?” It would be one of the last times the Lakers didn’t include a NO PICKUP BASKETBALL clause in the contract of a rookie signee.

The Lakers wrapped the season with an NBA-best 67-15 record, and while O’Neal (29.7 points per game), Bryant (22.5 points per game), and Rice (15.9 points per game) stood out on the statistical sheets, the key was Jackson. The veteran coach somehow kept a roster overflowing with egos and arrogance in one piece; somehow convinced O’Neal to ignore Bryant’s cockiness; and somehow convinced Bryant to accept life in the shadow of a larger-than-life big man. He used Rice wisely, leaned on veterans like John Salley and Ron Harper to keep the locker room happy, forbade the hazing of rookies.

They wouldn’t have a black star until Rookie of the Year Dick Allen hit 29 homers in 1964, and Allen enjoyed his time in Philadelphia so much that he drew a message in the dirt with his spikes while playing first base: TRADE ME.

At 11.25 a.m. on 16 July 2016, Adil Nizami, a twenty-five-year-old rookie reporter from Multan, broke the biggest story of his career. ‘Famous model Qandeel Baloch has been killed,’ he blurted out in a live call that interrupted 24 News’ regular morning bulletin.

I don't regret that kiss." His voice sounded like he was speaking through gravel. "Five years ago. Or now." "You don't?" His breath sawed in and out. "I understand that you do. Of course you do. But I needed it then. So bad.

Blue wasn't exactly a rookie, not any longer anyway. He'd had a phenomenal season the previous year that had him nin the upper echelon of NHL stat charts: 60 goals, 30 assists and a gritty, tough-as-shit work ethic.

His rookies had once been more than entries in a ledger, cogs in his cost-effectiveness machine. I tried to remember the last time I had seen him shout or laugh. I failed. Twenty years in the police force had killed everything, bit by bit: his ambition, thin his passion, then his wife.

There just aren’t enough years left for you to become a really strong player, but there’s still pleasure to be had in beating better players. You need to play more violently.