Rowing Team Quotes

Information coming directly from a politician or his team, without being vetted by reporters, is little more than propaganda.

If you could get all the people in an organization rowing in the same direction, you could dominate any industry, in any market, against any competition, at any time.

I've always been a quitter. I quit the Boy Scouts, the glee club, the marching band. Gave up my paper route, turned my back on the church, stuffed the basketball team. I dropped out of college, sidestepped the army with a 4-F on the grounds of mental instability, went back to school, made a go of it, entered a Ph.D. program in nineteenth-century British literature, sat in the front row, took notes assiduously, bought a pair of horn-rims, and quit on the eve of my comprehensive exams. I got married, separated, divorced. Quit smoking, quit jogging, quit eating red meat. I quit jobs: digging graves, pumping gas, selling insurance, showing pornographic films in an art theater in Boston. When I was nineteen I made frantic love to a pinch-faced, sack-bosomed girl I'd known from high school. She got pregnant. I quit town.

Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kids standing in a row to play baseball or soccer, and mine was the gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on their team.

No member of a crew is praised for the rugged individuality of his rowing.

The thing about wings is that they are yours and yours alone. You cannot inherit them from an indulgent father; you cannot buy them in Savile Row; you cannot win them in a lucky draw; you cannot marry them along with a pretty girl; you cannot steal them on a shoplifting spree. You cannot even earn them in a team event. You fight and you struggle, you study and you learn, you practice and you persevere, and finally you do it alone, high above the clouds, in a single-seater.

Back in Henrietta, night proceeded. Richard Gansey was failing to sleep. When he closed his eyes: Blue’s hands, his voice, black bleeding from a tree. It was starting, starting. No. It was ending. He was ending. This was the landscape of his personal apocalypse. What was excitement when he was wakeful melted into dread when he was tired. He opened his eyes. He opened Ronan’s door just enough to confirm that Ronan was inside, sleeping with his mouth ajar, headphones blaring, Chainsaw a motionless lump in her cage. Then, leaving him, Gansey drove to the school. He used his old key code to get into Aglionby’s indoor athletic complex, and then he stripped and swam in the dark pool in the darker room, all sounds strange and hollow at night. He did endless laps as he used to do when he had first come to the school, back when he had been on the rowing team, back when he had sometimes come earlier than even rowing practice to swim. He had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be in the water: It was as if his body didn’t exist; he was just a borderless mind. He pushed himself off a barely visible wall and headed towards the even less visible opposite one, no longer quite able to hold on to his concrete concerns. School, Headmaster Child, even Glendower. He was only this current minute. Why had he given this up? He couldn’t remember even that. In the dark water he was only Gansey, now. He’d never died, he wasn’t going to die again. He was only Gansey, now, now, only now. He could not see him, but Noah stood on the edge of the pool and watched. He had been a swimmer himself, once.

I will never understand why the ones we like don’t like us back, or why we’re never interested in the ones who actually do like us.

I get it, but I don’t wanna be at the wrong place at the wrong time. And there won’t be a wrong time if I can avoid the wrong place.

Tunnel vision is focus,’ he explains. ‘Limiting what you see or think. When you’re in a tunnel you can only go one way.

At this time of day it should have been open and full of fifty fellow smackheads, crackheads, psychotics, epileptics, schizophrenics, self-harmers, beggars, buskers, car thieves, sherry pushers, ciderheads, just-released-that-morning convicts, ex-army, ex-married-men-with-young-children-who'd-discovered-their-wife-in-bed-with-two-members-of-the-university-rowing-team-at-the-same-time.

Jack?" "Mmmm?" The band was playing a softer song, mellow and slow. "Why did you ask me out when you did?" I tried to sound casual. "What do you mean?" "I mean,did something specific happen to make you ask me out?" "Yes," he said. "What was it?" Had I thrown myself at Jack Caputo? Had I done something to get in Lacey's way? "You remember the first game of the season?" "Yeah," I said. It was Jack's first game as starting quarterback, the youngest starter in school history. I remembered sitting in the second row, directly behind the team bench. "After I threw for the first touchdown of the game?" "Yes." I still couldn't figure out where he was going with this.Had I flashed him or something,and blocked it out of my memory? I was pretty sure I wasn't holding up any large signs declaring my love or anything. "Our defense took the field, and I was on the bench.When I turned around to look at the fans..." He paused. Oh,no. "What did I do?" He smiled. "You looked at me.Not the game." He sighed,as if reliving the memory. I felt my face scrunch up in confusion. "That's it?" "That's it." He shrugged. "It was the first time I thought there might be a chance. I asked Jules about it." I bit my lip. "Apparently she doesn't understand that trusty sidekicks aren't supposed to spill secrets." In a flash,I was suspended in air, the back of my head inches from the ground, Jack's face a breath away from mine, his lips in a wicked grin. I gasped,more from surprise at the sudden dip than from fear. "There are no secrets between us,Becks." His smile remained,but his eyes were intense.

If you don’t wear spandex, and your shorts get caught, it will cost you your race.' 'Yeah, and if we wear those it will cost us our live,' Alvin says, laughing.

...if you had a slightly deranged genius on the team it was probably better to let him cox than row.

Being on the water is the only thing that calms the storm in us.

It is all about her and I’m happy to let her talk. It’s like listening to my favorite song.

I’m also scared of shootings, but I still go outside.

My legs are vibrating, but I can’t tell if it’s from fear or instability or both.

Grace seems easy like Sunday morning while the other girls seem hard to deal with like Monday morning.

We will teach you, because every time you conquer a fear, life gets a lot less scary.

But the greatest paradox of the sport has to do with the psychological makeup of the people who pull the oars. Great oarsmen and oarswomen are necessarily made of conflicting stuff—of oil and water, fire and earth. On the one hand, they must possess enormous self-confidence, strong egos, and titanic willpower. They must be almost immune to frustration. Nobody who does not believe deeply in himself or herself—in his or her ability to endure hardship and to prevail over adversity—is likely even to attempt something as audacious as competitive rowing at the highest levels. The sport offers so many opportunities for suffering and so few opportunities for glory that only the most tenaciously self-reliant and self-motivated are likely to succeed at it. And yet, at the same time—and this is key—no other sport demands and rewards the complete abandonment of the self the way that rowing does. Great crews may have men or women of exceptional talent or strength; they may have outstanding coxswains or stroke oars or bowmen; but they have no stars. The team effort—the perfectly synchronized flow of muscle, oars, boat, and water; the single, whole, unified, and beautiful symphony that a crew in motion becomes—is all that matters. Not the individual, not the self.

On a recent trip to Southern California, Jim had been given a tour of the fifty-square-block section of Los Angeles known as Skid Row, where about two thousand people were living on pavement in terrible squalor. Tens of thousands more were living under freeways and beside riverbeds in the greater Los Angeles area. When he returned, Jim told the Street Team: “L.A. makes me feel like we’re playing in a bathtub here in Boston. The dimension of the problem is beyond all imagination. Tents and encampments all over the place. L.A. would have to create housing for at least sixty-six thousand.

It seems like the more I try to become a better person for myself and others, the more shit I get. I don’t care, though, because I’m on a mission: to love my team more, love my family more, and love myself more.

For instance, my hair is the unmanageable kind of curly, the color of burnt toast. Imagine waking up every morning looking like the Lion King, or having to spend a disproportionate amount of your allowance on hair products that don’t deliver. Like the ones under my bathroom sink. Row after row of half-empty containers of mousse, gel, and hair tamer standing dejectedly like the third string of a basketball team that rarely gets to play.

Oh, she meant my team members. I hadn’t really processed most of them as friends yet, other than Patrick. I still wasn’t sure I could call Marissa a friend; I barely knew her. Jin was closer, but he was more of a business associate. Probably.

A boat was a place where no one could reach you, a place where some boy couldn't slide into your path to make you a prop in his joke. Even when the boys rowed past us, all we'd do was holler or chant; we didn't have to drop everything to watch them, which was the usual expectation. (Do you remember, for instance, the fake Woodstock that Marco Washington and Mike Stiles set up on the quad? They hauled couches from the dorms, used extension cords for guitars and stand mics. I joined the audience to listen to their terrible playing because it was the thing to do. Just as Open Dorm nights were for girls to feign interest in boys playing video games. Just as the only sporting events with full stands were for boys' teams. At the time, what rankled was the idea that we were supposed to see these boys as the stars, to fall at their sweaty feet. What bothers me now is those boys internalizing girls as audience, there only to act as mirrors, to make their accomplishments realer.)

What force had buttercups and earthworms and cabbages against the need of human beings for dwelling places, against developers’ chances to make money? Alive as a strange creature in an aquarium, the city stretched out its tentacles, grew and swelled, gobbling the pastures and hedgerows that lay in its path. Fields were bought, and new rows of houses built, and then the process repeated. Teams of workmen dug up hedges, filled in ponds and streams, put up neat streets of flat-fronted brick dwellings with steps and railings.

Her mouth twists as she looks around. “We had some really good times out here on this porch. It’s like our spot.” “I’ll buy this house some day, rip the porch off, and bring it with us when we have our own place.” Our house. Our porch. Enough kids for a little league team.

Kessler is a tireless and fair journalist who does not shy from calling out untruths uttered by either Democrats or Republicans. By mid-2019, Kessler’s team had documented more than ten thousand false or misleading statements by the president—an ignominious record unlikely to be matched by any other public figure.

Putin’s invasion of Ukraine isn’t a staring contest. It’s a land grab, the first of this scale since World War II. But when asked about it, instead of walking up to the plate and swinging at the softball (crack! more sanctions!), Drumpf put down his bat, walked down the third-base line, and kissed the opposing team’s head coach.

He and Edith were a team the way couples were meant to be a team—not by sharing hobbies like rowing for fuck’s sake—but in the way their sexes deemed socially and physically appropriate. He brought home the bacon; she pumped out the babies. It was a normal, productive, God-approved marriage. Did he sleep with other women? What a question. Didn’t everyone?

Our rival interrogation team is the Pubyok, named after the "floating wall" defenders that saved Pyongyang from invaders in 1136. There are only a dozen or so left, old men with silver crewcuts who walk in a row like a wall and truly believe they can float, stealthy as ghosts, from one citizen to the next, interrogating them as the wind interrogates the leaves.

After several rounds of interviews with Google’s founders, they offered me a job. My bank account was diminishing quickly, so it was time to get back to paid employment, and fast. In typical—and yes, annoying—MBA fashion, I made a spreadsheet and listed my various opportunities in the rows and my selection criteria in the columns. I compared the roles, the level of responsibility, and so on. My heart wanted to join Google in its mission to provide the world with access to information, but in the spreadsheet game, the Google job fared the worst by far. I went back to Eric and explained my dilemma. The other companies were recruiting me for real jobs with teams to run and goals to hit. At Google, I would be the first “business unit general manager,” which sounded great except for the glaring fact that Google had no business units and therefore nothing to actually manage. Not only was the role lower in level than my other options, but it was entirely unclear what the job was in the first place. Eric responded with perhaps the best piece of career advice that I have ever heard. He covered my spreadsheet with his hand and told me not to be an idiot (also a great piece of advice). Then he explained that only one criterion mattered when picking a job—fast growth. When

Irrelevant’ Chris Fogle turns a page. Howard Cardwell turns a page. Ken Wax turns a page. Matt Redgate turns a page. ‘Groovy’ Bruce Channing attaches a form to a file. Ann Williams turns a page. Anand Singh turns two pages at once by mistake and turns one back which makes a slightly different sound. David Cusk turns a page. Sandra Pounder turns a page. Robert Atkins turns two separate pages of two separate files at the same time. Ken Wax turns a page. Lane Dean Jr. turns a page. Olive Borden turns a page. Chris Acquistipace turns a page. David Cusk turns a page. Rosellen Brown turns a page. Matt Redgate turns a page. R. Jarvis Brown turns a page. Ann Williams sniffs slightly and turns a page. Meredith Rand does something to a cuticle. ‘Irrelevant’ Chris Fogle turns a page. Ken Wax turns a page. Howard Cardwell turns a page. Kenneth ‘Type of Thing’ Hindle detaches a Memo 402-C(1) from a file. ‘Second-Knuckle’ Bob McKenzie looks up briefly while turning a page. David Cusk turns a page. A yawn proceeds across one Chalk’s row by unconscious influence. Ryne Hobratschk turns a page. Latrice Theakston turns a page. Rotes Group Room 2 hushed and brightly lit, half a football field in length. Howard Cardwell shifts slightly in his chair and turns a page. Lane Dean Jr. traces his jaw’s outline with his ring finger. Ed Shackleford turns a page. Elpidia Carter turns a page. Ken Wax attaches a Memo 20 to a file. Anand Singh turns a page. Jay Landauer and Ann Williams turn a page almost precisely in sync although they are in different rows and cannot see each other. Boris Kratz bobs with a slight Hassidic motion as he crosschecks a page with a column of figures. Ken Wax turns a page. Harriet Candelaria turns a page. Matt Redgate turns a page. Ambient room temperature 80° F. Sandra Pounder makes a minute adjustment to a file so that the page she is looking at is at a slightly different angle to her. ‘Irrelevant’ Chris Fogle turns a page. David Cusk turns a page. Each Tingle’s two-tiered hemisphere of boxes. ‘Groovy’ Bruce Channing turns a page. Ken Wax turns a page. Six wigglers per Chalk, four Chalks per Team, six Teams per group. Latrice Theakston turns a page. Olive Borden turns a page. Plus administration and support. Bob McKenzie turns a page. Anand Singh turns a page and then almost instantly turns another page. Ken Wax turns a page. Chris ‘The Maestro’ Acquistipace turns a page. David Cusk turns a page. Harriet Candelaria turns a page. Boris Kratz turns a page. Robert Atkins turns two separate pages. Anand Singh turns a page. R. Jarvis Brown uncrosses his legs and turns a page. Latrice Theakston turns a page. The slow squeak of the cart boy’s cart at the back of the room. Ken Wax places a file on top of the stack in the Cart-Out box to his upper right. Jay Landauer turns a page. Ryne Hobratschk turns a page and then folds over the page of a computer printout that’s lined up next to the original file he just turned a page of. Ken Wax turns a page. Bob Mc-Kenzie turns a page. Ellis Ross turns a page. Joe ‘The Bastard’ Biron-Maint turns a page. Ed Shackleford opens a drawer and takes a moment to select just the right paperclip. Olive Borden turns a page. Sandra Pounder turns a page. Matt Redgate turns a page and then almost instantly turns another page. Latrice Theakston turns a page. Paul Howe turns a page and then sniffs circumspectly at the green rubber sock on his pinkie’s tip. Olive Borden turns a page. Rosellen Brown turns a page. Ken Wax turns a page. Devils are actually angels. Elpidia Carter and Harriet Candelaria reach up to their Cart-In boxes at exactly the same time. R. Jarvis Brown turns a page. Ryne Hobratschk turns a page. ‘Type of Thing’ Ken Hindle looks up a routing code. Some with their chin in their hand. Robert Atkins turns a page even as he’s crosschecking something on that page. Ann Williams turns a page. Ed Shackleford searches a file for a supporting document. Joe Biron-Maint turns a page. Ken Wax turns a page.

Standing there watching them, it occurred to me that when Hitler watched Joe and the boys fight their way back from the rear of the field to sweep ahead of Italy and Germany seventy-five years ago, he saw, but did not recognize heralds of his doom. He could not have known that one day hundreds of thousands of boys just like them, boys who shared their essential natures--decent and unassuming, not privileged or favored by anything in particular, just loyal, committed, and perseverant--would return to Germany dressed in olive drab, hunting him down. "They are almost all gone now--the legions of young men who saved the world in the years just before I was born. But that afternoon, standing on the balcony of Haus West, I was swept with gratitude for their goodness and their grace, their humility and their honor, their simple civility and all the things they taught us before they flitted across the evening water and finally vanished into the night.

I really believe that people don’t understand how much I learned from watching Family Matters, The Fresh Prince of Bel-air and A Different World. Dwayne Wayne’s character taught me that not matter how hard school gets or not matter what people say about your physical appearance, push through it and be yourself, and always give back to the place that gave to you. Steve Urkel’s character taught me how to love a girl and the importance of patience. The Fresh Price of Bel-air demonstrated how to be a good son, and even if you are without a father, there is still a bright future that lies ahead. I practice everything I learn from these shows in my daily life and I get positive results.

failure is a manifestation of learning and exploration. If you aren’t experiencing failure, then you are making a far worse mistake: You are being driven by the desire to avoid it. And, for leaders especially, this strategy—trying to avoid failure by out-thinking it—dooms you to fail. As Andrew puts it, “Moving things forward allows the team you are leading to feel like, ‘Oh, I’m on a boat that is actually going towards land.’ As opposed to having a leader who says, ‘I’m still not sure. I’m going to look at the map a little bit more, and we’re just going to float here, and all of you stop rowing until I figure this out.’ And then weeks go by, and morale plummets, and failure becomes self-fulfilling. People begin to treat the captain with doubt and trepidation. Even if their doubts aren’t fully justified, you’ve become what they see you as because of your inability to move.” Rejecting

As the other startups do at the end of their presentations, Shen offers to the batch the expertise of his team's members: "Kalvin and Randy are developers," he says, and as for himself, he knows how to stay motivated in the face of rejection. "I've gotten rejected thirty days in a row," he says, a reference to his putting himself through "Rejection Therapy," in which one must make unreasonable requests so that one is rejected by a different person, at least once, every single day- inuring one to the pain of rejection. (One example of Shen's first bid to be rejected: he asked a flight attendant if he could move up to first class for free. In another case, he saw an attractive woman on the train and decided he would ask her for her phone number, and when she would turn him down, he would have fulfilled the day's required quota of rejection. He sat near her, fell into a conversation, and when they got off the train and he asked for her number, she said, "Sure." He categorized this as "Failed Rejection.") "So if you need to get pumped up for your sales calls, talk to me. p121

Pie?" I narrowed my eyes at her, and then down at the container in her hands, where there were chocolate hand pies lined up in neat rows. The So Sorry Blondies were all gone by then, devoured between me and Paul and the rest of the dive team, and the memory of their deliciousness was too fresh for me to resist another Pepper Evans creation. I took one of the mini pies with a wary hand, just as she pulled out her phone, tapped it a few times, and smirked. I stopped chewing. "Did you just tweet?" I asked, my mouth full of chocolate. Pepper swept her bangs back with her fingers, and this time the gesture was calculated and breezy. "Did I?" I scowled into my phone screen, lowering it under my desk so Mrs. Fairchild wouldn't see. This one was just a GIF of Regina George from Mean Girls--- "Why are you so obsessed with me?" "At least your pie is better than your tweets," I mumbled. But the smirk on Pepper's face only deepened. "Those are from the Big League Burger bargain menu, by the way." My mouth dropped open. Pepper turned her eyes back to her textbook, burying her smirk in it. "Enjoy.

You never talk to the pitcher when…” He shook his head. “You just never talk to the pitcher when--” “I just wanted to congratulate him on a good game--” “It’s not over ’til it’s over,” Chase said. “You jinxed me,” Jason said, crouching down in the corner, pressing his palms against his forehead, like he’d been struck with a migraine headache. “You don’t really believe that superstitious--” His head came up so fast, and his stare was so hard that I stopped. He did believe. He really did believe. And judging by the way the other guys were looking at me, they all believed. I backed away, not knowing what to say. I’d just felt sorry for him because he was being ignored. The guy at bat struck out, and Brandon was next. Bird had her fingers crossed while clutching the wire of the fence. “I think I just made a big mistake,” I said, my voice low. “Yeah, I heard you. According to Brandon, you’re never supposed to use the term no-hitter in the dugout.” “Well, I wasn’t technically in the dugout.” “But your words traveled into the dugout. Close enough.” “Great. You don’t really think I jinxed them, do you?” Brandon struck out, the first time he’d struck out since playing for the Rattlers. When he walked by and glared at me, I found myself wishing Harry Potter was real, sitting in the stands, and could turn me into a rabbit’s foot. I didn’t really believe in bad luck. I believed we made our own luck, but I also understood the power of positive or negative thinking. If you think you’ll lose, you’ll lose. The next inning, when six batters in a row got base hits off Jason, the coach put in a relief pitcher. By that time, even people in the stands were looking at me like it was my fault. Someone suggested I sit behind the dugout of the visiting team.

He pulled a pink bedazzled phone from his hoodie pocket. "Call your friend. Let him know you're here." "This is your phone?" "Lady on the bus," he answered. Her jaw dropped. "She sat two rows ahead of us." "We passed her on the way to the back row." He picked a pocket that fast? "What are you?" "That's a damn good question. Now call your friend.

awkward televised hug from the new president of the United States. My curtain call worked. Until it didn’t. Still speaking in his usual stream-of-consciousness and free-association cadence, the president moved his eyes again, sweeping from left to right, toward me and my protective curtain. This time, I was not so lucky. The small eyes with the white shadows stopped on me. “Jim!” Trump exclaimed. The president called me forward. “He’s more famous than me.” Awesome. My wife Patrice has known me since I was nineteen. In the endless TV coverage of what felt to me like a thousand-yard walk across the Blue Room, back at our home she was watching TV and pointing at the screen: “That’s Jim’s ‘oh shit’ face.” Yes, it was. My inner voice was screaming: “How could he think this is a good idea? Isn’t he supposed to be the master of television? This is a complete disaster. And there is no fricking way I’m going to hug him.” The FBI and its director are not on anyone’s political team. The entire nightmare of the Clinton email investigation had been about protecting the integrity and independence of the FBI and the Department of Justice, about safeguarding the reservoir of trust and credibility. That Trump would appear to publicly thank me on his second day in office was a threat to the reservoir. Near the end of my thousand-yard walk, I extended my right hand to President Trump. This was going to be a handshake, nothing more. The president gripped my hand. Then he pulled it forward and down. There it was. He was going for the hug on national TV. I tightened the right side of my body, calling on years of side planks and dumbbell rows. He was not going to get a hug without being a whole lot stronger than he looked. He wasn’t. I thwarted the hug, but I got something worse in exchange. The president leaned in and put his mouth near my right ear. “I’m really looking forward to working with you,” he said. Unfortunately, because of the vantage point of the TV cameras, what many in the world, including my children, thought they saw was a kiss. The whole world “saw” Donald Trump kiss the man who some believed got him elected. Surely this couldn’t get any worse. President Trump made a motion as if to invite me to stand with him and the vice president and Joe Clancy. Backing away, I waved it off with a smile. “I’m not worthy,” my expression tried to say. “I’m not suicidal,” my inner voice said. Defeated and depressed, I retreated back to the far side of the room. The press was excused, and the police chiefs and directors started lining up for pictures with the president. They were very quiet. I made like I was getting in the back of the line and slipped out the side door, through the Green Room, into the hall, and down the stairs. On the way, I heard someone say the score from the Packers-Falcons game. Perfect. It is possible that I was reading too much into the usual Trump theatrics, but the episode left me worried. It was no surprise that President Trump behaved in a manner that was completely different from his predecessors—I couldn’t imagine Barack Obama or George W. Bush asking someone to come onstage like a contestant on The Price Is Right. What was distressing was what Trump symbolically seemed to be asking leaders of the law enforcement and national security agencies to do—to come forward and kiss the great man’s ring. To show their deference and loyalty. It was tremendously important that these leaders not do that—or be seen to even look like they were doing that. Trump either didn’t know that or didn’t care, though I’d spend the next several weeks quite memorably, and disastrously, trying to make this point to him and his staff.

Remind me again why I followed you out here?” Answer: Because curiosity killed the cat, Scarlett. You followed a good-looking stranger out into the dark and look where it got you – on the front porch, in the bitter cold. “Don’t beat yourself up about it – any one of those girls would have followed me out here, too.” Oh brother, he’s modest too? “And why do you suppose that is?” His broad shoulders shrug and damn, he must be freezing his ass off. “Captain of the baseball team. Handsome as fuck. Funny as hell.” “I don’t…wow. I don’t even know how to respond to that.” He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “It’s a lot to take in all at once.

All the solitary hours a writer pours into a novel would avail little if not for the solitary hours poured into it by many unseen others. Anyway I assume those others also do their work in solitude; maybe they work in pairs or crews or tag teams, but I’d rather imagine them slaving over my words in a poorly lit and otherwise unoccupied room, just as I do. Maybe they will have a little music for company, but nothing too upbeat, something along the lines of Mozart’s Requiem, for example, because as everybody who has ever worked on a book knows, this work can be as grueling in its way as crawling on your knees through ten acres of ground-hugging plants to pick potato beetles off one at a time and flick them into a galvanized bucket filled with soapy water. But it can also be as transcendent as the Requiem—or as picking potato beetles when you are in the right frame of mind for it. Knowing other people are engaged in the same underappreciated labor and squeezing a perverse kind of joy out of it is what keeps me writing, especially if it’s my field of potatoes they are picking over. Sometimes I like to picture each of my collaborators working their way down a row, their backs aching, hands filthy with beetle juice, fingernails broken, eyes going cross-eyed in the faltering light. It’s inspirational. Thirty years ago, I would have written (and did) a dull-as-dirt acknowledgment to thank each of my collaborators. It would have had all the excitement of a divorce decree. Back then I had no idea how difficult and precarious a job it is to turn out a novel every couple of years. It gets more difficult and precarious every year. So does living. To me, they’re pretty much the same thing.

chapter one   When the plane ran into trouble, it was over the Atlantic Ocean just south of Iceland. The Knights of the Square Table, the ninth-grade San Francisco all-star chess team, were sitting toward the middle of the plane. The three girls, Natalie, Cindy, and Alexis, sat together. Natalie was in the middle, Cindy was by the window, and Alexis was on the aisle. The guys—George, Liam, and Spider—were in the row ahead. The team was heading home after spending eight days in Europe for the International Youth Chess Championship. At the first lurch, when the plane tipped sideways, Natalie gripped the armrest so hard her fingers hurt. As if that would help one bit in an actual plane crash. A small child toward the front shrieked, “We’re frashing! We’re frashing!” “Oh, my God!” someone shouted. “Everyone needs to keep calm,” Cindy said in a small, squeaky voice. “Yeah, right!” Spider said. Spider’s real name was Michael, but nobody except his parents called him that. “Michael

In early 1945 Berg did go to Switzerland, as depicted here a bit earlier, to kill Heisenberg if necessary. Sitting in the front row of Heisenberg’s seminar, he determined that the Germans were nowhere near their goal, so he complimented Heisenberg on his speech about field theory and walked him back to his hotel. Moe Berg’s report was distributed to Britain’s prime minister, Winston Churchill, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, and key figures in the team developing the atomic bomb. Roosevelt responded: “Give my regards to the catcher.” Werner

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Team Leader’s Checklist Learn: Strengthen the team both cognitively and affectively. Design well: Set distinct goals with defined and varied tasks for team members. Build identity: Share experience and strengthen camaraderie to create a set of norms and values. Dynamic: As the market changes, evolve the team’s expectations and tasks. Diverse and inclusive: Optimize variety in the members’ backgrounds and experiences, and engage all in the team’s work and achievements. Size right: Not too large, not too small. Set compelling direction, strong structure, supportive context, and shared mindset. Create a team agenda, inner scaffolding, outer backing, and aligned thinking for members to row together in the right direction.

Like the decision about Highlander and IntenseDebate, there is no perfect answer. After years of leading projects, the best thing I've learned is that I have to periodically shift between thinking small (bazaar) and thinking long term (cathedral). Asking my team, “If we do these three features in a row, how do they build together into something better than the sum of the parts?” I don't want them fixated on thinking that far ahead, but I do want them to raise their heads and look to the horizon periodically, because that glance improves how they'll evaluate whatever they're building today.

Sure I am showing team spirit,” Niamh said. “I’ve got an Ivy House doily, a beer, and a front-row seat. I’m all set. Now feck off. Yer ruinin’ the taste of me beer.

Come on, little monster," Leon said enthusiastically. "The dream team is about to unite and I want a front row seat to seeing the Rydikins and Dantesaurous bromance kicking off officially.

Come on, little monster," Leon said enthusiastically. "The dream team is about to unite and I want a front row seat to seeing the Rydikins and Dantesaurous bromance kicking off officially." "Let's just focus on not dying for tonight," I suggested as we jogged towards the door. "We can think about getting them matching friendship bracelets once we're sure we aren't all going to die.

An rud is annamh is iontach. A uniquely Irish phrase, not just in language but in attitude. We’re a post-colonial nation, and in many ways we don’t expect – or even, in a stubborn way, want – too many nice things. Going without will make the having, whenever it comes along, all the sweeter. That’s the reasoning, anyway. It’s why culturally we love when teams end famines and are deeply suspicious of anything more than a three-in-a-row.

Sports teams conduct practice sessions and call time-outs mid-game to quickly review what’s going wrong and introduce modified approaches. This is true even in sports that don’t allow breaks. In rowing, for instance, a coxswain might call on a crew to focus on a particular aspect of their technique for five or ten strokes to recover their timing. A basketball point guard might dribble a few seconds off the shot clock while shouting directions to her teammates so they can regroup. Similarly, leaders must reserve time for slowification. Toyota, studied for their organizational learning and outstanding performance, routinely puts breaks between shifts so leaders can run problem-solving and improvement activities before production resumes. When production is interrupted, downtime is often used as a slowification opportunity.

Or the joke about the Israeli rowing team: one man rows while the others stand up in the boat yelling. Or the joke about the man who is flying on El Al, the Israeli airline, and is asked by the flight attendant if he wants dinner. He asks, “What are my choices?” The flight attendant says, “Yes or no.

Just like a city, parts of the Archives teemed with activity. The Scriptorium held rows of desks where scrivs toiled over translations or copied faded texts into new books with fresh, dark ink. The Sorting Hall buzzed with activity as scrivs sifted and reshelved books. The Buggery was not at all what I expected, thank goodness. Instead, it proved to be the place where new books were decontaminated before being added to the collection. Apparently all manner of creatures love books, some devouring parchment and leather, others with a taste for paper or glue. Bookworms were the least of them, and after listening to a few of Wilem’s stories I wanted nothing more than to wash my hands. Cataloger’s Mew, the Bindery, Bolts, Palimpsest, all of them were busy as beehives, full of quiet, industrious scrivs. But other parts of the Archives were quite the opposite of busy. The acquisitions office, for example, was tiny and perpetually dark. Through the window I could see that one entire wall of the office was nothing but a huge map with cities and roads marked in such detail that it looked like a snarled loom. The map was covered in a layer of clear alchemical lacquer, and there were notes written at various points in red grease pencil, detailing rumors of desirable books and the last known positions of the various acquisition teams. Tomes was like a great public garden. Any student was free to come and read the books shelved there. Or they could submit a request to the scrivs, who would grudgingly head off into the Stacks to find if not the exact book you wanted, then at least something closely related. But the Stacks comprised the vast majority of the Archives. That was where the books actually lived. And just like in any city, there were good neighborhoods and bad. In the good neighborhoods everything was properly organized and cataloged. In these places a ledger-entry would lead you to a book as simply as a pointing finger. Then there were the bad neighborhoods. Sections of the Archives that were forgotten, or neglected, or simply too troublesome to deal with at the moment. These were places where books were organized under old catalogs, or under no catalog at all. There were walls of shelves like mouths with missing teeth, where longgone scrivs had cannibalized an old catalog to bring books into whatever system was fashionable at the time. Thirty years ago two entire floors had gone from good neighborhood to bad when the Larkin ledger-books were burned by a rival faction of scrivs. And, of course, there was the four-plate door. The secret at the heart of the city. It was nice to go strolling in the good neighborhoods. It was pleasant to go looking for a book and find it exactly where it should be. It was easy. Comforting. Quick. But the bad neighborhoods were fascinating. The books there were dusty and disused. When you opened one, you might read words no eyes had touched for hundreds of years. There was treasure there, among the dross. It was in those places I searched for the Chandrian.

If you think of a special operations team—SEALs, Special Forces, Rangers, and the Air Force Pararescuemen and combat controllers—like a boat, everybody rows.

During that time, “Hurry up or we’ll be late” was commonly heard, either yelled from the kitchen or hissed while we scurried into the back row at church. There was too much to do in too little time. Life was a blur. And I thought everyone lived like this. That was until I read about “hurry sickness” in The Life You’ve Always Wanted by John Ortberg. My heart was skewered when I read that one of its symptoms is a diminished capacity to love. My children could have told you I had a problem. Only it wasn’t hurry sickness, it was hurry addiction. God dealt with my addiction to overload and hurry by taking it all away in a cross-country move. He made me go cold turkey as I said good-bye to working at my job, directing the children’s ministry, coleading the women’s ministry, being on the praise team, having my small group, leading Vacation Bible Study each summer, and more. God moved us 2,100 miles away—so far that I couldn’t even sneak back to lead a women’s event. I had no job, no church, and no friends, just lots of time. Since two of the boys were in school and the youngest had just started preschool, I had plenty of time to think and pray. And while there were lots of tears, I also experienced God in a new way. Very quickly, God connected me with Proverbs 31 Ministries. I started to learn that God had a better plan for my life than I did, and that I should look to Him for direction on my daily activities. I also learned that my first line of ministry was inside my home. I wasn’t completely cured of my hurry addiction yet, so I decided I would become the Best Homemaker Ever. And then I picked up a book called No Ordinary Home by Carol Brazo. And right in the beginning of the book I read something that brought about the biggest change in my life: If there were one biblical truth I wish I could give my children and lay hold of in my own deepest parts, it would be this one thing. He created me, He loves me, He will always love me. Nothing I do will change who I am. Being versus doing. The error was finally outlined in bold. I was always worried about what I was doing. . . . God’s only concern was and is what I am being—a child of His, forgiven, justified by the work of His Son, His Heir.[2] You know when you feel like an author has peeked into your living room window and knows exactly who you are? That’s what reading this was like for me. God wired me to be highly productive, but I hadn’t undergirded that with an understanding of my true identity. So in order to feel worthwhile and valued and confident, I was driven to take on more. More accomplishments equaled more worth. But it was never enough.

Never forget that all successful enterprises, no matter how big and wealthy, are an aggregation of teams—large and small, loyal and renegade, stabilizing and anarchistic, from the lowliest engineers to executive row—all of them working, sometimes in harmony and sometimes at cross-purposes, toward the success of the company.

The instructors were consumed with abdominal strength, the reasons for which are now obvious: the abdomen is the bedrock of a warrior’s strength for climbing rocks and ropes, rowing, lifting, swimming, fighting, and running.

The advantages of using account of the legal defense DUI professional According to a DUI or DWI they have very high values, and can be much more difficult, if not able to qualified lawyer in these types of services. It important to get the services of professionals who are familiar with the course of DUI criminal record because the team is almost certainly best, highest paid on the common law also working for many years in a row, and he is almost certain that the officials involved to enforce the law and choose the most effective way. The consumption can peak at promoting the method of blood flow to help ease and the minimum number of punches than likely. Even if you do not want the removal of a fence of a demo, it is deliberately allowed to produce only for the ingredients so suddenly that the interest will be at least in his imprisonment and the decision of the necessary business expense. Education Lawyer, worth DUI, because they understand the rules on the details of the DUI. Great leadership only recognizes attorneys who offer surgery that seemed to bend the lowest possible cost. Field sobriety tests are defense without success, and when the lawyer to provide classroom-oriented, to the surprise of identifying the brain decides what industry breathalyzer sobriety vote or still under investigation. Trying to fight against DUI private value, it may be impossible for the layman is that much of the Berufsrecht did. DUI lawyer can be a file with the management consultants can be used or deny the accuracy of the successful management of blood or urine witnesses. Almost always one day, you can not help learning tool. If there is a case where the amount, solid, is the legal adviser to shock and other consultants witnesses are willing to cut portions and finds out she has some tire testing and influence. Being part of the time, problems with eating problems and more experience DUI attorney in looks secrets and created. The idea that the lawyer is suddenly more than the end result of controlling historical significance of countless people do not share the court made. It very appropriate, qualified, but two at the end of every little thing that you do not agree even repentance and uses for what was happening right opportunity. It can not be argued, perhaps, costs, what seems to be one that includes many just go to the airport to record driving under the influence, but their professional experience and meetings, both issues related to diversity, Lange random taxation measures. Many people today claim that the market is in DUI cases, of course, exhausted, and are a lawyer, go to their rights in the region.

Clustering illusion, where we underestimate the likelihood of “clusters” of events happening by chance. Even if Oddo directed baseballs with total randomness, the odds of getting four balls pulled in a row by luck alone wouldn’t be that long—about one in sixteen. But it didn’t occur to me that what I was watching could be a fluke. Focalism, where we put too much weight on the first piece of information we acquire. Base rate fallacy, where we ignore universal truths (like “lefties pull a lot of grounders”) in favor of narrow, specific data. And,

January 2013 Andy’s Message   Hi Young, I’m home after two weeks in Tasmania. My rowing team was the runner-up at the Lindisfarne annual rowing competition. Since you were so forthright with your OBSS experiences, I’ll reciprocate with a tale of my own from the Philippines.☺               The Canadian GLBT rowing club had organised a fun excursion to Palawan Island back in 1977. This remote island was filled with an abundance of wildlife, forested mountains and beautiful pristine beaches.               It is rated by the National Geographic Traveller magazine as the best island destination in East and South-East Asia and ranked the thirteenth-best island in the world. In those days, this locale was vastly uninhabited, except by a handful of residents who were fishermen or local business owners.               We stayed in a series of huts, built above the ocean on stilts. These did not have shower or toilet facilities; lodgers had to wade through knee-deep waters or swim to shore to do their business. This place was a marvellous retreat for self-discovery and rejuvenation. I was glad I didn’t have to room with my travelling buddies and had a hut to myself.               I had a great time frolicking on the clear aquiline waters where virgin corals and unperturbed sea-life thrived without tourist intrusions. When we travelled into Lungsodng Puerto Princesa (City of Puerto Princesa) for food and a shower, the locals gawked at us - six Caucasian men and two women - as if we had descended from another planet. For a few pesos, a family-run eatery agreed to let us use their outdoor shower facility. A waist-high wooden wall, loosely constructed, separated the bather from a forest at the rear of the house. In the midst of my shower, I noticed a local adolescent peeping from behind a tree in the woods. I pretended not to notice as he watched me lathe and played with himself. I was turned on by this lascivious display of sexual gratification. The further I soaped, the more aroused I became. Through the gaps of the wooden planks, the boy caught glimpses of my erection – like a peep show in a sex shop, I titillated the teenager. His eyes were glued to my every move, so much so that he wasn’t aware that his friend had creeped up from behind. When he felt an extra hand on his throbbing hardness, he let out a yelp of astonishment. Before long, the boys were masturbating each other. They stroked one another without mortification, as if they had done this before, while watching my exhibitionistic performance carefully. This concupiscent carnality excited me tremendously. Unfortunately, my imminent release was punctured by a fellow member hollering for me to vacate the space for his turn, since I’d been showering for quite a while. I finished my performance with an anticlimactic final, leaving the boys to their own devices. But this was not the end of our chance encounter. There is more to ‘cum’ in my next correspondence!               Much love and kisses,               Andy

First Week of January 2013 Continuation of my Message to Andy (part 5)   Hi Andy, Are you back from your Tasmanian rowing expedition? Did your team win? I hope so. If I remember correctly, you were always an excellent rower and your teammates at Daltonbury Hall venerated your feathering mastery. I’d love to hear your adventures.☺   Back To My OBSS Escapades   As we headed to Jules’ makeshift office (a classroom temporarily converted), Kim was overtly skittish. He had surmised we would be consigned to cleaning the OBSS lavatories as punishment for our playful misdemeanour. I assured the teenager that that wouldn’t be the case; a more propitious outcome would be in order. Yet, he continued to brood, blaming me for my impertinence. Instead of arguing with him, I kept silent.               I couldn’t help but notice a sardonic smug on Jules’ handsome face when we entered. “Young, will you keep watch outside while I have a word with this young man?” he instructed. I sat on a nearby bench, waiting my turn. Minutes passed, and I needed to use the restroom. I wasn’t sure if I should leave, in the event I would be called upon, but I decided to go. Just as I was finishing my business, I heard a commotion outside. In states of disarray, my leader and tent-mate were being escorted out of the office by a couple of burly guards from the senior officer’s HQ. I was shocked to witness such an unanticipated occurrence. For a brief moment, Kim looked my direction before they marched into the darkness. The unforgettable terror on his face was of a man about to be hanged. It didn’t take long for rumours to circulate around camp that the two were caught red-handed doing unspeakable things to one another. Yet, none of the gossipmongers could provide a definitive account. The next day, Jules and Kim were gone. They had both been hastily expelled without having a chance to say goodbye. My three remaining days at OBSS, I was flummoxed. It was my final evening in Singapore when the truth came to light. My ex-OBSS leader was coming out of a bar in Bugis Street when I stumbled upon him. It was then that I heard the entire narrative from the horse’s mouth.

Enterprise Data Warehouse Bus Matrix The enterprise data warehouse bus matrix is the essential tool for designing and communicating the enterprise data warehouse bus architecture. The rows of the matrix are business processes and the columns are dimensions. The shaded cells of the matrix indicate whether a dimension is associated with a given business process. The design team scans each row to test whether a candidate dimension is well-defined for the business process and also scans each column to see where a dimension should be conformed across multiple business processes. Besides the technical design considerations, the bus matrix is used as input to prioritize DW/BI projects with business management as teams should implement one row of the matrix at a time.

would seem to call for nastier treatment than Mr. Barr’s tender loving care. “The Killing of Sister George” continues through Nov. 1 at the Beckett Theater at Theater Row, 410 West 42nd Street, Clinton; 212-279-4200, telecharge.com. A Bridge Deal From the McConnell Cup By PHILLIP ALDER The main team event for women at the world championships, which opened Friday

Every few years, in the world of sport, someone ascends to the most rarefied of all levels—the one at which it becomes news not when they win, but when they lose. It must have been like that in the early Fifties, when a tubby Italian called Alberto Ascari was stitching together nine Grand Prix wins in a row, a record not even Fangio, Clark or Senna could match. Or when the great Real Madrid side of Alfredo Di Stefano and Ferenc Puskas won the first five European Cup finals, between 1956 and 1960. Or when Martina Navratilova dominated Wimbledon's Centre Court, winning nine ladies' singles titles in thirteen years. The current Australian cricket team is in just such a run at present, having just completed nine consecutive victories, putting them four wins away from establishing an all-time record. And then there is Tiger Woods.

It was toward the middle part of their relationship, though neither she nor Vohannes knew it then. She had found him sitting beneath a tree, watching the rowing team practicing in the Khamarda River, next to the academy. The girls’ team had just set their shell in the water and was climbing in. When Shara joined him and sat in his lap, as she often did, she felt a soft lump pressing into her lower back.

We’ve Only Just Begun Drive to the Broken Shillelagh and talk to Pierce. Watch the cut scene. Make sure once again that you stock up on weapons, such as grenades and of course ammo before starting the next mission. When you’re ready, leave and call Shaundi for the next mission. The Powder Room Head to the building indicated, watch the scene and head inside. Shoot, especially trying to take out the snipers you come across. Keep moving through and when you reach the blue pylon, touch it to carry on. You’ll face a new Brute in the next room. Get the best weapon you have and keep moving! Throw grenades when you can, just don’t stay still, because you will die. You’ve got Pierce and Shaundi for help, so take cover and attack. You will need to revive either Piece, Shaundi or both of them at some point. In a story mission, you’ll fail if an important character dies. So quickly revive them. The big Brute will sometimes face the issue of an overheating minigun. This is the perfect time to revive one of your team, or, if you don’t need to, attack him. It’s basically a case of aiming for his head, keeping moving

Even supermotivated people who’re working to exhaustion may not be doing deliberate practice. For instance, when a Japanese rowing team invited Olympic gold medalist Mads Rasmussen to come visit, he was shocked at how many hours of practice their athletes were logging. It’s not hours of brute-force exhaustion you’re after, he told them. It’s high-quality, thoughtful training goals pursued, just as Ericsson’s research has shown, for just a few hours a day, tops. Noa Kageyama, a performance psychologist on the faculty of the Juilliard School of Music, says he’s been playing the violin since he was two but didn’t really start practicing deliberately until he was twenty-two. Why not? There was no lack of motivation—at one point, young Noa was taking lessons with four different teachers and, literally, commuting to three different cities to work with them all. Really, the problem was just that Noa didn’t know better. Once he discovered there was an actual science of practice—an approach that would improve his skills more efficiently—both the quality of his practice and his satisfaction with his progress skyrocketed. He’s now devoted himself to sharing that knowledge with other musicians.

Alyque and his team began a public interest ad campaign (for which Lintas had become famous) to raise aid for drought stricken Rajasthan and raised substantial assistance. A death row convict wrote to me from his cell. In the epochal Express style that always encouraged the reporter, the editors ran the story on the front page.

Students who made significant progress didn’t have better teachers. They just happened to have the same teacher for two years in a row. The practice is called looping. Instead of staying in the same grade and teaching new students each year, teachers move up a grade with their students. The benefits of looping aren’t specific to North Carolina. A separate team of economists replicated the study with nearly a million elementary and middle schoolers in Indiana—and found the same results.

Boogie Woogie to the Superbowl New Country, Rock and roll August 18, 2024 at 9:00 AM (Verse 1) We’re gearing up on game day, Kansas City Chiefs, ready to fight. With Mahomes and Kelce, we’re on a roll, Boogie woogie to the Super Bowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Verse 2) The crowd’s on fire, the lights are bright, Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight. With every pass and every throw, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Bridge) From the first down to the final play, We’re bringing the heat, come what may. With Mahomes leading, and Kelce too, There’s nothing this team can’t do. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Outro) So raise your voices, let 'em hear, Kansas City Chiefs, this is our year. With every cheer and every goal, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl.

Boogie Woogie to the Superbowl August 18, 2024 at 9:00 AM (Verse 1) We’re gearing up on game day, Kansas City Chiefs, ready to fight. With Mahomes and Kelce, we’re on a roll, Boogie woogie to the Super Bowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Verse 2) The crowd’s on fire, the lights are bright, Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight. With every pass and every throw, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Bridge) From the first down to the final play, We’re bringing the heat, come what may. With Mahomes leading, and Kelce too, There’s nothing this team can’t do. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Outro) So raise your voices, let 'em hear, Kansas City Chiefs, this is our year. With every cheer and every goal, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl.

Chiefs Kingdom Forever” (Verse 1) We’re Kansas City Chiefs fans born and raised, True and blue, we stand amazed, Mahomes and Kelce, leading the way, With their trick plays, they light up the day. (Chorus) We’re goin’ for three in a row, To the Super Bowl, let’s go, let’s go! Chiefs Kingdom, loud and proud, We’ll cheer 'em on, in every crowd. (Verse 2) From Arrowhead to the big stage, Our team’s the best, we set the gauge, With every pass and every run, We’re in it till the game is won. (Chorus) We’re goin’ for three in a row, To the Super Bowl, let’s go, let’s go! Chiefs Kingdom, loud and proud, We’ll cheer 'em on, in every crowd. (Bridge) Through the highs and the lows, In the rain, in the snow, We’re Chief fans till the end, With our team, we’ll always stand. (Chorus) We’re goin’ for three in a row, To the Super Bowl, let’s go, let’s go! Chiefs Kingdom, loud and proud, We’ll cheer 'em on, in every crowd. (Outro) So raise your voices, let it be known, In Chiefs Kingdom, we’ve found our home, Mahomes and Kelce, leading the way, We’re Chiefs fans, come what may.

(Verse 1) We’re gearing up, on game day, Kansas City Chiefs, ready to fight. With Mahomes and Kelce, we’re on a roll, Boogie woogie to the Super Bowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Verse 2) The crowd’s on fire, the lights are bright, Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight. With every pass and every throw, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Bridge) From the first down to the final play, We’re bringing the heat, come what may. With Mahomes leading, and Kelce too, There’s nothing this team can’t do. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Outro) So raise your voices, let 'em hear, Kansas City Chiefs, this is our year. With every cheer and every goal, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl.

Boogie Woogie to the Superbowl” (Verse 1) We’re gearing up, on game day, Kansas City Chiefs, ready to fight. With Mahomes and Kelce, we’re on a roll, Boogie woogie to the Super Bowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Verse 2) The crowd’s on fire, the lights are bright, Arrowhead’s rocking, what a sight. With every pass and every throw, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Bridge) From the first down to the final play, We’re bringing the heat, come what may. With Mahomes leading, and Kelce too, There’s nothing this team can’t do. (Chorus) We’re gonna boogie woogie to the Super Bowl, Twist and shout, we’re on a roll. Three in a row, we’re gonna show, Kansas City Chiefs, let’s go, let’s go! (Outro) So raise your voices, let 'em hear, Kansas City Chiefs, this is our year. With every cheer and every goal, Boogie woogie to the Superbowl.

Paperback 204 pages ISBN: 9780996871839 Available in print, digital and audiobook formats If you have ever experienced infighting, such as a team ora department pitting itself against another team or department; if you have ever worked for a micromanaging and overbearing boss; if you have ever navigated the changes that come with a merger or other significant restructuring process, then you have had a front-row seat to organizational drama. David Emerald’s 3 Vital Questions: Transforming Workplace Drama was written for you! “It is impossible to describe what a profound impact the 3 Vital Questions have had on my life, personally and professionally.” —Chris Nagel, Director of Leadership & Team Development, Cleveland

Take away the husband, the career, the kids. Those are the things society says we women should be happiest about. Like we should be grateful for stiff dicks when we’re not in the mood, and getting smacked in the face at two in the morning when your kid pees in the bed for the third night in a row, and your job keeps you an extra two, three hours a couple times a week to do extra work you’re not getting paid for because you’re on salary and a team player. Whew—happy happy joy joy, right? But strip that down. What really makes you happy?

When we notice the prices on the menu we ask Ken if we can have the money instead and just go to Burger King. He laughs and tells us no because life is about experiencing new things. When the waiter takes our orders, Preston asks for the filet mignon but pronounces it totally wrong. Alvin asks for the New York strip steak, and then asks to substitute the sides for another New York strip steak. The waiter starts laughing, but we don’t because we know he is serious. Malcolm and I both play it safe with pasta. It was always a dream of mine to eat at a fancy restaurant. Now that the dream is fulfilled, there is room for more dreams.

As young people, we shout to the rooftop that we want to go to college, make the NBA, graduate high school, win a race, or get a job. Those things will never come to pass if we sit on our butts and just say we want it. We have to get up, put in the work, and get it because if we don’t someone will take what is supposed to be ours, like that twenty dollars.

The Gunslinger” was one of our favorites, listening to it we created a secret handshake that was something of a mixture of a cheers, a hang ten and throwing back a shot. When I did Make-A-Wish visits, I would often show the secret handshake to the kid. I would tell them to watch out for the signal after Roman and I defeated the bad guys that night. The memories of looking out into the front row as the Make-A-Wish kids proudly displayed the weird hang ten/problem drinker signal we created, smiles on their faces, are some of my favorite memories. They were on the team. This is why we do this.

Morty: Hey, gang, come on! Look it, just `cause we're losing doesn't mean it's all over. Phil: Cut the crap, Morty. I mean, the Mohawks have beaten us the last twelve years, they're gonna beat us again. Tripper: That's just the attitude we don't need. Sure, Mohawk has beaten us twelve years in a row. Sure, they're terrific athletes. They've got the best equipment that money can buy. Hell, every team they're sending over here has their own personal masseuse, not masseur, masseuse. But it doesn't matter. Do you know that every Mohawk competitor has an electrocardiogram, blood and urine tests every 48 hours to see if there's any change in his physical condition? Do you know that they use the most sophisticated training methods from the Soviet Union, East and West Germany, and the newest Olympic power Trinidad-Tobago? But it doesn't matter. It just doesn't matter. IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER. I tell you, IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER! IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER! IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER! The group: IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER! IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER... Tripper: And even, and even if we win, if we win, HAH! Even if we win! Even if we play so far over our heads that our noses bleed for a week to ten days. Even if God in Heaven above comes down and points his hand at our side of the field. Even if every man, woman and child held hands together and prayed for us to win, it just wouldn't matter, because all the really good looking girls would still go out with the guys from Mohawk cause they've got all the money! It just doesn't matter if we win or we lose. IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER!

The ceremony consisted of vibrant pink, purple, and coral details that complemented the rustic wood and lush green vines climbing up the chapel. Abigail's team constructed an arbor made entirely of drooping orchids and palm fronds that framed the wooden doors perfectly. The aisle was lined with thousands of coral-colored rose petals and more orchids spilling over the end of every row of seats. It was a tropical dream.

When the next negotiation session came around on March 15, Nichols confidently pulled out a printed copy of the report and confronted U.S. Soccer’s representatives with it. U.S. Soccer responded that the jump in profitability for the women’s team was an aberration—not part of the larger pattern in the federation’s finances. “An aberration?” Nichols responded. “Aberrations don’t occur multiple years in a row. Aberrations aren’t projected. You guys have projected profitability. You projected the women to bring in more than the men.” What U.S. Soccer’s executives told him, and have maintained in the federation’s defense ever since, is that over the previous four-year cycle—which includes World Cups for both teams—the men brought in more revenue than the women. Both sides agree that is true. The gap in revenue between the national teams had historically been large—but the long-term trend showed the gap was shrinking. Since the 2015 World Cup, the gap had flipped and the women had been bringing in more money.

Do not freak out about training the same movement or the same body part for two or more days in a row. It is a standard operating procedure among Russian athletes. For example, the Russian National Powerlifting Team benches up to eight times a week. The key to successful frequent training is constant variation of the loading variables: weights, reps, sets, rest periods, tempo, exercise order, exercise selection, etc.

It was the USSR, as an emerging basketball power in the 1950s, that first called on Olympic leaders to officially add women's basketball to the program as a medal sport, a half century after the Fort Shaw girls demonstrated the game in St. Louis. Their first attempt came during a June 1955 meeting of the International Olympic Committee in Paris, where the Soviets asked delegates to vote on the adding women's competitions in volleyball, basketball, speed skating, and rowing, all of which were already open to male athletes.

A baseball team or a basketball team may very well triumph even if its star player is off his game. But the demands of rowing are such that every man or woman in a racing shell depends on his or her crewmates to perform almost flawlessly with each and every pull of the oar.

Mr. Vitale is just one of those people who’s never satisfied with anything. All the employees in the building cower in fear whenever he’s near. I should’ve known I was in trouble when I got promoted and the admin team gave me looks of pity as if I was on death row.

Imagine that I am trying to assemble a superstar coin-flipping team (under the erroneous impression that talent matters when it comes to coin flipping). After I observe a student flipping six tails in a row, I offer him a ten-year, $50 million contract. Needless to say, I’m going to be disappointed when this student flips only 50 percent tails over those ten years.

And, for leaders especially, this strategy—trying to avoid failure by out-thinking it—dooms you to fail. As Andrew puts it, “Moving things forward allows the team you are leading to feel like, ‘Oh, I’m on a boat that is actually going towards land.’ As opposed to having a leader who says, ‘I’m still not sure. I’m going to look at the map a little bit more, and we’re just going to float here, and all of you stop rowing until I figure this out.’ And then weeks go by, and morale plummets, and failure becomes self-fulfilling

One time, at the final hockey game of his senior year, against rival Beverly at the hockey rink in Lynn, the score was tied at two after regulation. Jack had scored both goals for Salem. The game went into overtime, but shortly thereafter, Jack’s team lost. It was the team’s seventh loss in a row. Jack was pissed. He threw his hockey stick in anger, then skated to get the stick and marched off to the locker room. Next thing he knew, his mother was in the locker room, too. She bounded right up to him, oblivious to the fact that the guys around her were in various states of undress. She grabbed him by the jersey in front of everyone. “You punk,” she yelled at him. “If you don’t know how to lose, you’ll never know how to win. If you don’t know this, you don’t belong anywhere.” He paused for a moment, recalling the memory. “She was a powerhouse,” he said. “I loved her beyond comprehension.

Baseball at Kearney differed from ball in a big-league park in this minor respect: here that ball was still claimed by the management, regardless of what fan was able to get his hooks on it. Before the time of London, however, boys and cops had a time of it, trying to enforce the claim. Into the proper row ran the dog, pushing past knees. There was no ball to be seen, and no one to give the culprit away, but a dog’s nose was able to tell when he reached a man with the ball in his pocket. It would be bad form to threaten force to get it back, so London merely stared the man down until in embarrassment he had to fish the ball out of his pocket. Nor would London let him throw it back over the wire to its rightful owners; he blocked the pitch, determined that the ball was his, to be surrendered only to him, his until he could turn it over to the cop.

We had watched the Sacramento Kings, my favorite NBA team, playing the Indiana Pacers. The Pacers had won but it was still fun, especially since we had tickets for the third row. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Vlade Divac and Predrag Stojakovic, two Serbs playing in the Kings, waving at me and saying hello. They recognized the jersey of Divac's former team from Belgrade that I had been wearing.

Let’s apply our model to the work of a new employee. What is his motivation? It is very much based on self-interest. So you should give him a clearly structured job with a low CUA factor. If he does well, he will begin to feel more at home, worry less about himself, and start to care more about his team. He learns that if he is on a boat and wants to get ahead, it is better for him to help row than to run to the bow.

Water pumps generally had four bolts the thickness of thumbs that screwed them into the base. My job was to remove the nuts from these four bolts. Because the workshop floor was damp, over the years the nuts had rusted into iron lumps. I put the wrench in place and started to turn it forcefully, using the exact same arm motion as rowing. Later I met a man from England who’d been on the Cambridge University rowing team and had nearly competed in the Olympics. He’d talked about this noble sport, proudly rolling up his sleeves and giving me a look at his biceps, round and smooth, like half-globes. I pulled up my sleeves too and showed him my biceps, which were in the same league as his. The English man was overjoyed and asked me what sport I played. I told him I played Rusty Screws.

different. Instead of fighters, these men were engineers. Smarter in some ways, but greener. Navy engineers who, along with Gorski and his own team, were there for one reason and one reason only. Watching as the row of men donned their gear, Gorski turned around and glanced out over the emerald waters of the Caribbean Sea. Gorski

I can’t even look at the crowd I feel so ashamed. The boat is moving, but the timing is off. Chances are everyone is somewhere else mentally.