Wearing Jersey Quotes

The FUTURE of this world has long been DECLARED; the final outcome between GOOD and evil is already KNOWN. There is absolutely no question as to who WINS because the VICTORY has already been posted on the SCOREBOARD. The only really strange thing is all of this is that we are still down here on the FIELD trying to decide which TEAM’S JERSEY we want to wear!

And I'm sure than in Poland, or somewhere, it is considered cool to drive a Porsche and wear necklaces and black silk, but at least back in Brooklyn if you did those things you were either a drug dealer or from New Jersey.

Amos clapped his hands. “Khufu!” I thought he’d sneezed, because Khufu is a weird name, but then a little dude about three feet tall with gold fur and a purple shirt came clambering down the stairs. It took me a second to realize it was a baboon wearing an L.A. Lakers jersey.

We're seriously going to drive to Jersey with a bird wearing a bra in the backseat?

Just my jersey Maggie. No one else's. Ever. I don't want anyone's jersey touching you but mine. Keep this one. Wear it all the damn time you want, but don't ever put Brady's on again. My girl. My fucking jersey.

Fashion Fact: Most people make the assumption that I wear trendy shades the majority of the time (often indoors) to protect my eyes from the elements. But in fact it's the reverse. I'm protecting the elements from the brilliance of my eyes.

If by weirdo he meant that Nick didn’t play grab-ass with the wannabes on the street corner, didn’t yank at his crotch and call girls bitches, didn’t wear oversized jerseys and pretend to be a gangsta all day, then yeah, Nick had to agree.

If Earth had a soccer team, everyone on Earth would wear the same jersey to support it. There’d be no them, there’d only be us.

If you’re going to start coming to my games, I better see Rhodes on your back and I’m not talking about my brother.”  “Is this some athlete kink you got? Need to see a girl in your jersey?” The old flirty side of me that I’ve kept hidden and locked down for the most part since Max came into my life is itching to break free.  I pop my shoulders. “I like to see pretty girls in my jersey. Like to take it off them too.”  Miller’s lips part, a shocked and satisfied grin lifting on the corners. “Well, with that kind of promise, I’ll be sure to wear it next time.

Promise me you’ll wear it. I need my girl wearing my jersey in the stands, or I might lose the game.” I arch a brow. “Your girl?

What can I say?” I slowly turned and smiled up at Reed. “I guess I’ve finally found the kind of hockey player whose jersey I want to wear.

Everyone born is on the field of life’s game, but not everyone does wear the jersey of vision! Some people are fair players and others are injury causers; you joke with the later and they hit you down in pain and blood stains!

This one also has Anderson on the back, because I’d die before I saw this woman wear anyone’s jersey but mine.

If you ever wear another man’s jersey, I will kill that man. So be careful, sweetheart.

The accusation raises my hackles. “Why? Because I’m a player?” Indignation makes my tone harsher than I intend for it to be. “Have you ever thought that maybe it’s because I haven’t met the right girl yet? But no, I couldn’t possibly want someone to cuddle with andwatch movies with, someone who wears my jersey and cheers for me at games, and cooks dinner with me the way you and Garrett—

I was indignant. “She called me a dork. She just met me. How could she possibly make that call after only one dinner?” Mom eyed my outfit critically and then said, “You do realize you’re wearing your Gryffindor jersey, right?” I opened my mouth to tell her it was a collectible straight off the Harry Potter official clothing line, but Mom cut across me. “And you know that when Daisy walked in, you had your right hand up, fingers splayed in that strange Star Trek signal.” Yeah,

Wearing: shorts + a jersey = a visual oxymoron.

You’re wearing another man’s jersey, looking hot as hell, and we don’t like it,” Creed said bluntly.

Wear my jersey, you better be ready to wear my ring and my name, because that’s where this is going for me. Don’t fucking tease me again unless you’re all the way there too.

Did you wear my jersey?” I ask. I can’t not ask. And yeah, maybe it makes me a brute or an egomaniac or whatever. But I have to know. Parker’s smile is soft. “Of course. I’ve only ever worn your jersey, Logan.

Sports Jerseys: To wear another man’s name on your back is a subconscious slap in the face to who you are. Don’t fantasize about being someone else. Put in the work required to rise to the level of your greatest self.

We picked up Grouper III and one of his buddies on the way to Media Day. The two of them were wearing Easton jerseys and didn’t shut the hell up in the back of my car the entire way to the stadium. Their excitement was contagious. “They always that loud?” My eyes slanted toward Grouper. He nodded. “The Good Lord made old people go deaf for a reason.

I hate mourning,” she said. “It always smells of moth balls because it’s been laid up somewhere.” “You don’t need to go on wearing mourning. It’s only to go to the funeral in,” said Tommy. “Oh no, I know that. In a minute or two I’m going to go up and put on a scarlet jersey just to cheer things up. You can make me another White Lady.” “Really, Tuppence, I had no idea that funerals would bring out this party feeling.

I saw a few Sligo people at Mass in Gardiner Street this morning and the omens seem to be good for them, the priest was wearing the same colours as the Sligo jersey! 40 yards out on the Hogan Stand side of the field Ciarán Whelan goes on a rampage, it's a goal. So much for religion.

And so I continue in borderline poverty, save for my one indulgence, no, my single absolute necessity: I take cabs. Yes, on occasion, when I wish to see what people with unpleasant skin conditions are wearing, I do take the subway. I have never, I am proud to say, taken the bus, because people who take the bus have given up.

You can only wear one team's jersey

Larry Bird was a great basketball player, but he would have been even better if he were more specific. I'd wear a Larry Duck jersey.

jersey

I can’t believe she’s wearing his jersey! I mean, I know they trauma-bonded over his injury. And now the Finnish Olympic scouts are here. But I was here first. She should be in my jersey!

Whenever I stumble over my own feet, or blurt out a thought that makes no sense at all, or leave the house wearing one pattern too many, I always think, It's okay, I'm from New Jersey. I love New Jersey, because it's not just an all-purpose punch line, but probably a handy legal defense, as in, "Yes, I shot my wife because I thought she was Bigfoot, but I'm from New Jersey.

The taller of the guys is wearing a Browns jersey and I wonder if he’s checked their stats for the season. If he had, he probably wouldn’t be prancing around in that thing with such pride.

In fact, I’d like even more than that, as in her wearing my jersey on game days and jumping in my arms when we win. That’s what I’d like, but unfortunately, I’ve been sabotaging myself for years.

He devoured morning shows, daytime shows, late-night talk shows, soaps, situation comedies, Lifetime Movies, hospital dramas, police series, vampire and zombie serials, the dramas of housewives from Atlanta, New Jersey, Beverly Hills and New York, the romances and quarrels of hotel-fortune princesses and self-styled shahs, the cavortings of individuals made famous by happy nudities, the fifteen minutes of fame accorded to young persons with large social media followings on account of their plastic-surgery acquisition of a third breast or their post-rib-removal figures that mimicked the impossible shape of the Mattel company’s Barbie doll, or even, more simply, their ability to catch giant carp in picturesque settings while wearing only the tiniest of string bikinis; as well as singing competitions, cooking competitions, competitions for business propositions, competitions for business apprenticeships, competitions between remote-controlled monster vehicles, fashion competitions, competitions for the affections of both bachelors and bachelorettes, baseball games, basketball games, football games, wrestling bouts, kickboxing bouts, extreme sports programming and, of course, beauty contests.

For all his manwhoring, the guy has a strict rule about not doing freshmen. I’m not sure I blame him, considering our little stalker incident at the start of the year. Dean had hooked up with a freshman, who, after one night of exquisite passion, decided they were madly in love. She then proceeded to show up at our house at all hours of the day and night, sometimes wearing clothes, other times not wearing clothes, usually armed with flowers and love letters and—my personal favorite—a framed photo of herself wearing Dean’s hockey jersey. Sometimes when I’m falling asleep, I can still hear her wailing Deeeeeeeeean outside my window.

Reggie always wears the team jersey - and a pair of shorts - no matter how cold it gets. I'm betting he dreams about one day being called on to make a comeback. 'We need five tries in the last three minutes. It's almost impossible, Reggie. That's why I'm asking you.' 'Piece of cake, Dusty. Here, mind me false teeth.' Dusty's been with the Gunners as long as I can remember. He's an institution - or he should be in one - it's one of the two.

Hard to miss you, babe. You were the only one wearing an Elmwood jersey in the Heston student section. Ballsy move. Red looks great on you.” I swipe my tongue across my lower lip. “Bet you’d look even better in blue and green.

Woman,” he said when he pulled back, his eyes taking in the full sight of me. “You’re wearing my jersey.” “I am.” He shook his head, fisting his hands in the fabric as his eyes grew hungrier. “This makes me fucking feral, Mave.

What can I say? I’m a weak man. I doubt there’s a guy out there who would’ve stopped to question what was happening if their girl was wearing their jersey with no panties on. I’m basically putty in her very talented but very bossy hands.

I have a game tomorrow night. Do you want to come and cheer me on?” She didn’t lift her head. “Yes.” “Are you going to wear my jersey?” “Yup.” “Are we good?” She lifted her head. “I have your bathroom all planned out.” I smiled. “For our IKEA date?

One day, an unusually exciting event interrupted the rhythm of our regular middle-class teenage lives. A Russian woman, the mother of a girl in our class, was run over by a New York City bound train right in the center of town. Our classmate left school in the middle of the semester. The gossip was that the woman must have thrown herself under the train. The adults whispered about reasons, usual ones, but my friends and I were too busy planning what to wear to the prom to wonder about the savagery of adult passion.

It was getting late, but sleep was the furthest thing from my racing mind. Apparently that was not the case for Mr. Sugar Buns. He lay back, closed his eyes, and threw an arm over his forehead, his favorite sleeping position. I could hardly have that. So, I crawled on top of him and started chest compressions. It seemed like the right thing to do. "What are you doing?" he asked without removing his arm. "Giving you CPR." I pressed into his chest, trying not to lose count. Wearing a red-and-black football jersey and boxers that read, DRIVERS WANTED. SEE INSIDE FOR DETAILS, I'd straddled him and now worked furiously to save his life, my focus like that of a seasoned trauma nurse. Or a seasoned pot roast. It was hard to say. "I'm not sure I'm in the market," he said, his voice smooth and filled with a humor I found appalling. He clearly didn't appreciate my dedication. "Damn it, man! I'm trying to save your life! Don't interrupt." A sensuous grin slid across his face. He tucked his arms behind his head while I worked. I finished my count, leaned down, put my lips on his, and blew. He laughed softly, the sound rumbling from his chest, deep and sexy, as he took my breath into his lungs. That part down, I went back to counting chest compressions. "Don't you die on me!" And praying. After another round, he asked, "Am I going to make it?" "It's touch-and-go. I'm going to have to bring out the defibrillator." "We have a defibrillator?" he asked, quirking a brow, clearly impressed. I reached for my phone. "I have an app. Hold on." As I punched buttons, I realized a major flaw in my plan. I needed a second phone. I could hardly shock him with only one paddle. I reached over and grabbed his phone as well. Started punching buttons. Rolled my eyes. "You don't have the app," I said from between clenched teeth. "I had no idea smartphones were so versatile." "I'll just have to download it. It'll just take a sec." "Do I have that long?" Humor sparkled in his eyes as he waited for me to find the app. I'd forgotten the name of it, so I had to go back to my phone, then back to his, then do a search, then download, then install it, all while my patient lay dying. Did no one understand that seconds counted? "Got it!" I said at last. I pressed one phone to his chest and one to the side of his rib cage like they did in the movies, and yelled, "Clear!" Granted, I didn't get off him or anything as the electrical charge riddled his body, slammed his heart into action, and probably scorched his skin. Or that was my hope, anyway. He handled it well. One corner of his mouth twitched, but that was about it. He was such a trouper. After two more jolts of electricity--it had to be done--I leaned forward and pressed my fingertips to his throat. "Well?" he asked after a tense moment. I released a ragged sigh of relief,and my shoulders fell forward in exhaustion. "You're going to be okay, Mr. Farrow." Without warning, my patient pulled me into his arms and rolled me over, pinning me to the bed with his considerable weight and burying his face in my hair. It was a miracle!

I was wearing a colorful, short cover-up over a royal blue bikini. I had on gold strappy sandals and I looked cute-as-fuck. Did I, however, look like I was about to go yachting with New York City’s upper elite? No. I probably would have fit in better at the Jersey Shore between Snooki and JWoww.

he will never let any player in any of them wear number "16." He will always keep hoping that Benji is going to turn up one day and demand his jersey. There's a hockey puck on a gravestone in Beartown. The writing is small, so that all the words can fit. 'Still the bravest bastard I know.' Beside the puck lies a watch.

When she came in a week later wearing an elegant black jersey dress that caressed her body, he’d said only, “Nice dress, Ms. Baird,” and left it at that. Even though that dress made him want to stroke her all over, then push her up against a wall and do things that would make her realize once and for all that he was completely uncivilized under the suits.

God says He wants us to battle injustice, to look out for orphans and widows, to give sacrificially. And anyone who gets distracted with the minutiae of this point or that opinion is tagging out of the real skirmish. God wants us to get some skin in the game and to help make a tangible difference. I can’t make a real need matter to me by listening to the story, visiting the website, collecting information, or wearing the bracelet about it. I need to pick the fight myself, to call it out just like I called Dale out. Then, most important of all, I need to run barefoot toward it. But I want to go barefoot because it’s holy ground; I want to be running because time is short and none of us has as much runway as we think we do; and I want it to be a fight because that’s where we can make a difference. That’s what love does. Sure, it’s easier to pick an opinion than it is to pick a fight. It’s also easier to pick an organization or a jersey and identify with a fight than it is to actually go pick one, to commit to it, to call it out and take a swing. Picking a fight isn’t neat either. It’s messy, it’s time consuming, it’s painful, and it’s costly. It sounds an awful lot like the kind fight Jesus took on for us when He called out death for us and won.

Primer of Love [Lesson 7] "He disrespected the Bing." ~ Tony Soprano, Episode 34 Lesson 7)Don't diss'em or let'em diss you. We're back on Brooklyn's streets (or Newark) on this one. It's all about respect - show none and you get whacked. None of that 'alpha' shit flies here - you're equals and command equal respect. She watches the kids, you cart the garbage. The kids wear her down all day; the cops break your chops about a missing WalMart tractor trailer with 100,000 pair of Levi jeans 'somebody' jacked on the Jersey Turnpike. You twos gotta' to vent your daily shit to each other.Let it all out, but be careful not to anything you may regret or prepare to sleep with a Glock under your pillow for the rest of your live. Insist you be totally naked when having sex to make sure nobody's wearing a wire. Capisce!

Because of all this, Aomame hated her parents and deeply despised both the world to which they belonged and the ideology of that world. What she longed for was an ordinary life like everybody else’s. Not luxury: just a totally normal little life, nothing more. She wanted to hurry up and become an adult so she could leave her parents and live alone—eating what and as much as she wanted, using the money in her purse any way she liked, wearing new clothes of her own choosing, wearing shoes that fit her feet, going where she wanted to go, making lots of friends and exchanging beautifully wrapped presents with them. Once she became an adult, however, Aomame discovered that she was most comfortable living a life of self-denial and moderation. What she wanted most of all was not to go out with someone all dressed up, but to spend time alone in her room dressed in a jersey top and bottom.

Ode to a Dressmaker’s Dummy" Papier-mache body; blue-and-black cotton jersey cover. Metal stand. Instructions included. --Sears, Roebuck Catalogue O my coy darling, still You wear for me the scent Of those long afternoons we spent, The two of us together, Safe in the attic from the jealous eyes Of household spies And the remote buffooneries of the weather; So high, Our sole remaining neighbor was the sky, Which, often enough, at dusk, Leaning its cloudy shoulders on the sill, Used to regard us with a bored and cynical eye. How like the terrified, Shy figure of a bride You stood there then, without your clothes, Drawn up into So classic and so strict a pose Almost, it seemed, our little attic grew Dark with the first charmed night of the honeymoon. Or was it only some obscure Shape of my mother’s youth I saw in you, There where the rude shadows of the afternoon Crept up your ankles and you stood Hiding your sex as best you could?-- Prim ghost the evening light shone through.

You Are Not Your Jersey “Avoid having your ego so close to your position that when your position falls, your ego goes with it.” - Colin Powell The New Zealand All Blacks (national rugby team) have a mantra: “Leave the jersey in a better place”. It means, this is not your jersey, you are part of something bigger but do your best while you wear the jersey. It provides a valuable lesson about enjoying your moment in the sun but letting go to pursue another one once your time ends. When I played in Toulouse they had the same mindset. The club only contracted a certain number of players each year and there was a set number of locker spaces. Each locker was numbered in such a way that was not associated with a jersey number and that was also the number you wore on your club sportswear. Some numbers were 00, others were 85 and mine was 71. When I joined the coach explained to me in French that this was not my number, but I was part of a tradition that spanned decades. My interpretation still remains, “You are not your jersey.

For the briefest of seconds, it was like he looked back into the stands, like maybe he spotted me, shaking my rattle, giving him all the encouragement I could. I could have sworn I saw a corner of his mouth curl up. Then he did the whole Velcro batting glove thing and stepped up to the plate. The pitch came. He swung. Crack! He hit it! He hit it! I jumped up and started shouting. I had a second to see the stunned look on his face, like maybe he’d never hit the ball before, but that couldn’t be… And then I realized what it was. As he started running, he turned his head, his gaze following the ball… The ball that went out of the ballpark! Right over the Backyard Mania billboard! Home run! My boyfriend had hit a home run! I jumped around, pointing at the number on my jersey, hugging Bird, hugging Tiffany, watching Jason slapping his coach’s hand as he rounded third. I watched him cross home plate, wearing the biggest grin on his face. “You know what this means, don’t you?” Bird said. “That we’re ahead two to nothing?” “It means he’ll insist you sit in this exact spot for every game. He’ll think this is the good luck spot.” “No way.” “Either that, or he’ll ask you not to wash your underwear.” “Ew! That’s so not happening. Maybe I can convince him it was wearing the jersey.” Yeah, I thought. That’s the ticket.

After the assembly I’m getting my chem book out of my locker when Peter comes over and leans his back against the locker next to mine. Through his mask he says, “Hey.” “Hey,” I say. And then he doesn’t say anything else; he just stands there. I close my locker door and spin the combination lock. “Congratulations on winning best group costume.” “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” Huh? “What else am I supposed to say?” Just then Josh walks by with Jersey Mike, who’s dressed up as a hobbit, hairy feet and all. Walking backward, Josh points his wand at me and says, “Expelliarmus!” Automatically I point my wand back at him and say, “Avada Kedavra!” Josh clutches his chest like I’ve shot him. “Way harsh!” he calls out, and he disappears down the hallway. “Uh…don’t you think it’s weird for my supposed girlfriend to wear a couples costume with another guy?” Peter asks me. I roll my eyes. I’m still mad at him from this morning. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you when you look like this. How am I supposed to have a conversation with a person in head-to-toe latex?” Peter pushes his mask up. “I’m serious! How do you think it makes me look?” “First of all, it wasn’t planned. Second of all, nobody cares what my costume is! Who would even notice something like that?” “People notice,” Peter huffs. “I noticed.” “Well, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry that a coincidence like this would ever occur.” “I really doubt it was a coincidence,” Peter mutters. “What do you want me to do? Do you want me to pop over to the Halloween store during lunch and buy a red wig and be Mary Jane?” Smoothly Peter says, “Could you? That’d be great.” “No, I could not. You know why? Because I’m Asian, and people will just think I’m in a manga costume.” I hand him my wand. “Hold this.” I lean down and lift the hem of my robe so I can adjust my knee socks. Frowning, he says, “I could have been someone from the book if you’d told me in advance.” “Yes, well, today you’d make a really great Moaning Myrtle.

Never wear pride as the jersey of your dreams. You will miss the goal and lose your dreams if you put on pride!

Patrick Sharp remembers how bad it was. He remembers hosting a blood drive with Duncan Keith in 2007, the two future stars wandering around Millennium Station wearing bright-red Blackhawks jerseys with their names on them, trying to hand out free tickets and failing miserably. Even with their own names on the backs, nobody knew who the hell either of them was.

These two laws in particular were central to Jewish identity in Paul’s day. They had become social badges of honor to distinguish Jews from Gentiles, something concrete to hang on to amid the persistent religious chaos introduced by centuries of Greek and Roman ways. That’s why I wear my Yankees jersey in Phillies country. I do it, at great risk to myself, to let the world—the world, mind you—know that I am different. I belong to another tribe. I am special.

Let’s look at your average American Muslim, someone like Siraj Wahaj, the recipient of the American Muslim community’s highest honors. Mr. Wahaj had the privilege in June of 1991 of becoming the first Muslim to deliver a daily prayer before the U.S. House of Representatives. In his prayer he recited from the Koran and appealed to almighty God to guide America’s leaders ‘and grant them righteousness and wisdom.’ The same Wahaj spoke to a Muslim audience a year later in New Jersey. This time Wahaj was singing a different tune to a different audience, and his words were far from his moderate ones in front of the U.S. House of Representatives. ‘If only Muslims were more clever politically,’ he told his New Jersey listeners, ‘they could take over the United States and replace its constitutional government with a caliphate. If we were united and strong, we’d elect our own emir [leader] and give allegiance to him. . . . [T]ake my word, if 6-8 million Muslims unite in America, the country will come to us." If Wahaj is the example of the American Muslim community and the receiver of its highest honors, who needs enemies? If this is whom our government calls a ‘moderate’ and invites to deliver a prayer before the House of Representatives, we have ignorant elected officials sitting in our capital running our country. Do you feel safer now knowing that not all Muslims are plane-flying, bomb-wearing, or car-driving terrorists? Talking about overthrowing our government and replacing it with an Islamic caliphate is terrorism of a different kind, but it is still terrorism. This is the more dangerous kind, the kind that circles you slowly, so that by the time you realize you are about to be killed, it’s already too late to do anything about it. Where is the outrage? Have we lost our sense of patriotism and loyalty to America? Do you consider this ‘moderation’? A highly respected, award-winning Muslim from the Islamic American community calling to overthrow the United States government?

Home run! My boyfriend had hit a home run! I jumped around, pointing at the number on my jersey, hugging Bird, hugging Tiffany, watching Jason slapping his coach’s hand as he rounded third. I watched him cross home plate, wearing the biggest grin on his face. “You know what this means, don’t you?” Bird said. “That we’re ahead two to nothing?” “It means he’ll insist you sit in this exact spot for every game. He’ll think this is the good luck spot.” “No way.” “Either that, or he’ll ask you not to wash your underwear.” “Ew! That’s so not happening. Maybe I can convince him it was wearing the jersey.” Yeah, I thought. That’s the ticket.

The Trade Scatto Short Sleeve Jersey is the perfect blend of aerodynamic and technical fabrics. This jersey takes advantage of the fabrics and features from our FR-C collection combined with the fit of our Silver Line Jersey. The materials utilized are ideal for the sublimation process, providing Giordana's Designers and design partners with a high tech canvas on which they can create a wide range of graphics with impeccable detailing. This is what makes The Trade Category of Garments so much fun. Unique sublimated graphics help you stand out from your local group ride, crit, or gran fondo while enjoying the comfort and performance you'd expect from a Giordana Garment Tech Specs: • Gi27: front and side panels • Asteria 2.0: sleeves and shoulders • Doubled Asteria 2.0 arm cuffs • Host Carbon: back panel to support the pockets and prevent sagging • Two reflective strips along the centre jersey pocket • Gripper elastic at waist • CamLock Zipper • Fourth zippered pocket

Any idiot can face a crisis - it’s day to day living that wears you out. ANTON CHEKHOV

Well, since you’re so in the loop and seem to hear—or find out—everything, what am I supposed to wear tonight?” “Well, my personal belief is the shorter, the better,” he says with a smirk but then refocuses. “But so far, I’ve heard a few things. I’m not the best with descriptions, but I’ll do my best. Uh, one girl is wearing a short dress with a sweetheart neckline—not sure what that is. Another is doing a cocktail dress that’s black with shiny beads. Another is wearing something red and lacy. The girls behind me were debating jersey dresses. They say that they either make you look amazing or like a stuffed sausage. Though I’m not really sure why they would wear a sports jersey to the club.

What premier league football team do you support ? To be honest (don’t be mad) we’re not huge football fans. Though we do occasional wear a Seahawks jersey and eat skittles.

When a young employee gasped at his blue language, Simons flashed a grin. “I know—that is an impressive rate!” A few times a week, Marilyn came by to visit, usually with their baby, Nicholas. Other times, Barbara checked in on her ex-husband. Other employees’ spouses and children also wandered around the office. Each afternoon, the team met for tea in the library, where Simons, Baum, and others discussed the latest news and debated the direction of the economy. Simons also hosted staffers on his yacht, The Lord Jim, docked in nearby Port Jefferson. Most days, Simons sat in his office, wearing jeans and a golf shirt, staring at his computer screen, developing new trades—reading the news and predicting where markets were going, like most everyone else. When he was especially engrossed in thought, Simons would hold a cigarette in one hand and chew on his cheek. Baum, in a smaller, nearby office, trading his own account, favored raggedy sweaters, wrinkled trousers, and worn Hush Puppies shoes. To compensate for his worsening eyesight, he hunched close to his computer, trying to ignore the smoke wafting through the office from Simons’s cigarettes. Their traditional trading approach was going so well that, when the boutique next door closed, Simons rented the space and punched through the adjoining wall. The new space was filled with offices for new hires, including an economist and others who provided expert intelligence and made their own trades, helping to boost returns. At the same time, Simons was developing a new passion: backing promising technology companies, including an electronic dictionary company called Franklin Electronic Publishers, which developed the first hand-held computer. In 1982, Simons changed Monemetrics’ name to Renaissance Technologies Corporation, reflecting his developing interest in these upstart companies. Simons came to see himself as a venture capitalist as much as a trader. He spent much of the week working in an office in New York City, where he interacted with his hedge fund’s investors while also dealing with his tech companies. Simons also took time to care for his children, one of whom needed extra attention. Paul, Simons’s second child with Barbara, had been born with a rare hereditary condition called ectodermal dysplasia. Paul’s skin, hair, and sweat glands didn’t develop properly, he was short for his age, and his teeth were few and misshapen. To cope with the resulting insecurities, Paul asked his parents to buy him stylish and popular clothing in the hopes of fitting in with his grade-school peers. Paul’s challenges weighed on Simons, who sometimes drove Paul to Trenton, New Jersey, where a pediatric dentist made cosmetic improvements to Paul’s teeth. Later, a New York dentist fitted Paul with a complete set of implants, improving his self-esteem. Baum was fine with Simons working from the New York office, dealing with his outside investments, and tending to family matters. Baum didn’t need much help. He was making so much money trading various currencies using intuition and instinct that pursuing a systematic, “quantitative” style of trading seemed a waste of

Just remember what I told you before about wearing my jersey. I still intend to fuck you in it,

It used to be that only a professional player could wear the official team uniform. Now anyone with $75 can own an authentic game jersey. Somehow that cheapens the honor and privilege that go with that jersey. In reality, only the players themselves have earned the right to wear it. But we have done the same thing with our heroes. We throw the term around and slap it on just about anyone who has attained even a modicum of celebrity status, whether it is in the world of sports, music, or entertainment. But greatness is not merely for those fortunate enough to gain public notoriety. It is not for those who seek grandeur or personal glory. Rather it should be for those who, through quiet strength, demonstrate character on and off the field or the stage.

Not my number. The little witch is wearing 42 on her shoulders now. My gaze darts over to Caleb and I see the 31’s on his shoulders. They switched jerseys. The asshole has the gall to blow me a kiss and wave. Rachel slaps his hand down. I’m going to kill him.

for the first time in my life, I feel the way all the other girls did when I was growing up, and they got to wear their boyfriends’ hoodies or jerseys to games.

You wear my jersey well, little viper.

Don’t mind us,” he says over his shoulder, his voice sounding… normal. “I just can’t resist when a girl wears my jersey.” Fucker. There are a few snickers from the guys. “Isn’t that right, little viper?

He wouldn’t attract flies,’ was the verdict of a club owner invited to book Sinatra for a week of performances. Most believed that and because he’d angered so many people in the movies and recording industry few were willing to help including those who had made good money from his career. His friend Mickey Cohen stepped in with a ‘testimonial dinner’ in early 1951 at the Beverly Hills Hotel, the pink palace standing proudly on that tributary for fading stars, Sunset Boulevard, but it was a disappointing affair. Cohen had to outfit his own bodyguards and assorted other hoods in evening wear to make up the numbers. The invited ‘girls’ got more attention in the hotel’s Polo Lounge. Most of Hollywood thought it was all over for Frank Sinatra but across the country in New Jersey, which has a warm approach to all things Italian, was a pal who always believed the best was yet to come. Paul ‘Skinny’ D’Amato, a maestro of the entertainment business in Atlantic City, a Mafia indulged fixture of the Boardwalk, a gambler, and a fixer and, importantly, an entertaining and loveable man, met Sinatra in 1939. He proved a valuable connection and loyal ally.

Because the boy I loved, who I had given my whole heart to, was no longer wearing number eighty-seven on his jersey. Now, number thirty-three was printed on his shirt.

My girl. My jersey," I say right before the people around us start oohing. "I can't believe you just did that," she says, attempting to hold back a shy smile. I quickly peck her lips. "Believe it. I used to dream about you being mine. Now you are." I start back down the stairs. "My dream girl wears my name." I throw her a wink as my heart races faster than my feet back to the dugout. Cameron Salt is my future. I've never been more sure of anything in my life, but I've also never lived in this moment. One where I'm enough and the girl I want wants me back. I saw it on her face. My move was bold, but it was everything, just like her.

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Crawford. “Well, earlier today a man walked into a dealership in town and said his name was Carl Crawford and asked to test-drive a Navigator and never came back,” said the officer. Crawford was confused. He told the cops he’d never driven a Navigator in his life. As it turned out, a crafty car burglar wearing Crawford’s jersey had taken a gamble on a Tampa Lincoln dealer having no clue what the best player on the city’s baseball team looked like. It worked.

You like the Eagles?” His eyes light up in interest. “I love them. I used to watch games with my dad every weekend when I was growing up.” I laugh. “You can thank Finn for that.” “How so?” He raises a brow in question. “He showed up at our house one time when I was, I don’t know, around twelve, wearing an Eagles jersey. So of course I told him how much I loved football.” “Of course you did.” “I’d never watched a game in my life. But Eric heard me telling Finn how much I loved football, so he retaliated by telling our dad how I was dying to watch the games with him every Sunday.” I shrug. “I ended up loving it.” He grins. “I gave him that jersey. Finn never cared about anything but running.” “So you’ve been unintentionally messing with my life for a decade,” I mock complain. “I’d have intentionally messed with you given the chance.” He frowns. “Scratch that. Thank God I didn’t meet you before now. Eric would’ve killed me.” “Probably,” I agree.

I’ve even seen kids wearing red and white jerseys with Garrison stamped across the back right above his number.

Here I was worried about Troy shooting the club up for what I was wearing, but bitches better not even look his way for too long or I'm turning all the way up.

Four blue-blazered, gray-slacked guards stood at the entrance—real guards, Myron noted, with cop eyes and KGB facial tics, not the rent-a-uniforms you saw at department stores or airports. The four of them stood silently, eyeing Myron like he was wearing a tube top in the Vatican. One of the guards stepped forward. “May I see some ID please?” Myron took out his wallet and showed him a credit card and driver’s license. “There’s no photo on the driver’s license,” the guard said. “New Jersey doesn’t require them.” “I need a photo ID.” “I have my picture on my health club membership card.” Cop-patient sigh. “That won’t do, sir. Do you have a passport?” “In midtown Manhattan?” “Yes, sir. For the purposes of ID.” “No,” Myron said. “Besides, it’s a terrible picture. Doesn’t fully capture the radiant blue in my eyes.” Myron batted them for emphasis. “Wait here, sir.” He

Charlotte tugs on my jersey. “Do you mind if I take some pics tonight?” she yells over the stereo system, which is blasting our classic rock warmup playlist. “’Course not. Do your thing.” She gives me one of those lingering smiles that makes me wonder if my mom is right. If Charlotte has had feelings for me since high school. I watch her walk away. She’s wearing some cutoffs that make her ass look amazing and her slender legs long. “Just friends, huh?” Billy elbows me hard. “Best rethink that.” “Why are you always pestering me?” He holds a hand over his heart. “You wound me, bro. I’m trying to be a good person. Which means I’m not making a move on your girl like I want to.” I don’t even bother arguing that she’s not my girl. Because Charlotte feels like she’s mine. Fuck it. I’m done debating this. I’m going after what I really want.

My brows drop in confusion as I stare at the ninety-nine on Blake’s shirt. “You told me the other day that you were number thirteen.” “I loaned my jersey to the sub and borrowed an extra from work.” My lips morph into a frown. “So, whose number am I wearing?” “That would be mine.” There could be a thousand people chattering around me, and I’d still be able to pick out Walker’s amused voice. I slowly turn around and meet his smug smile. My peripheral picks up the number thirteen across his chest matching mine. Well, that backfired. “How nice of you to wear my number, Jane.” Oh, that smugness. I would slap it off his face, except it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

hope one day to see you. I hope one day to feel your lips on mine and your arms wrapped around my body. I hope one day to laugh so hard that I almost pee my pants again from one of your stupid-ass jokes. I hope to watch you play football from the stands, wearing your name and jersey number on my back and screaming way too loud. And I hope one day to sing for you again. I hope for all of those things so damn much.

She’s wearing the jersey I sent over, and it’s everything. I’d lament the fact that it’s concealing that gorgeous body if not for the fact that her wearing my name feels right in a way I haven’t felt in years. Maybe I shouldn’t have given her that to wear, but I couldn’t exactly afford a brand new one.

Those colors look good on you,” I say. He’s wearing a Cowboys jersey even though I know he hates them. He wore it because he knew more than half of this restaurant would be wearing apparel celebrating the home team. As I glance around the room, all I see is a field of blue, white, and silver. “Don’t start. The things I do for you.” He rolls his eyes and fake gags.

Mess up all my plans, Harlow. Because I don’t want to be part of any plans unless they include you. I need you in my life, for anything to mean something. When I play in my first pro game, I want you to be behind the bench wearing my jersey. If you’re not, it’ll just be another hockey game.

Listen, Starlight. I’m not being a hundred per cent honest here, and I’m sorry. I wanted to see you in my jersey because that’s what girlfriends wear. I want this thing between us.” He touches his chest, gesturing between us. “To be more. I want to be your boyfriend. I want it more than I can tell you. I want to make you smile every day so I can see that dimple. And I know you’re scared. I get it. I’m fucking terrified that I’m going to tell you this and you’re going to disappear on me again. But it’s the truth, and I owe you the truth.

you’re going to start coming to my games, I better see Rhodes on your back and I’m not talking about my brother.”  “Is this some athlete kink you got? Need to see a girl in your jersey?” The old flirty side of me that I’ve kept hidden and locked down for the most part since Max came into my life is itching to break free.  I pop my shoulders. “I like to see pretty girls in my jersey. Like to take it off them too.”  Miller’s lips part, a shocked and satisfied grin lifting on the corners. “Well, with that kind of promise, I’ll be sure to wear it next time.

Halle,” Mom groans as soon as she sees the orange. “I thought you’d wear Will’s jersey. This isn’t very supportive of you.

I don’t fucking like you wearing another man’s jersey.” “And why is that?” I know he’s baiting me. “I want you to wear my name because you’re mine. I want everyone in here to know you’re here with me. For me.

She was wearing my jersey. Every bit of blood I had rushed out of my extremities and straight to my cock. The couple of brain cells I had left in my head growled like a cocaine bear inhabited by a very possessive demon. Mine.

I’m going to wear your jersey and scream your name.” “Can you not make me hard before I go into this meeting, please?

I doubt there’s any guy out there who would’ve stopped to question what was happening if their girl was wearing their jersey with no panties on. I’m basically putty in her very talented but very bossy hands.

Sidney, do not fuck with me right now. Take. It. Off.” He growled the words, and tingles traveled down my spine. I lifted the jersey over my head and immediately wrapped my arms around my chest from the chill. Jax reached back and pulled his jersey over his head, leaving him in just his pads. I swallowed hard and took it when he pushed it into my hands. “You don’t wear anyone’s number but mine.

He’s wearing a Barcelona soccer jersey, dad jeans, and pristine New Balance 995s.

On the same day that Marcelle Navratil arrived in New York, a brand-new movie entitled Saved from the Titanic was announced on the marquees of the city’s nickelodeons. The ten-minute silent film had been made in three weeks at Éclair’s studios in New Jersey and starred a real-life survivor of the shipwreck, Miss Dorothy Gibson, wearing the same white silk dress and black pumps in which she had escaped from the sinking liner. Dorothy had at first been unwilling to relive her ordeal so soon after the disaster and according to one newspaper there were times during the filming when she had “practically lost her reason by virtue of the terrible strain she had been under.” The one-reeler, which was produced by Jules Brulatour, would be Dorothy’s last film since she then embarked on a career in opera. This would prove to be short-lived, as would her marriage to Brulatour in 1917. Following a generous divorce settlement in 1919, the prettiest girl retreated from public attention and was never seen on stage or screen again.

Maybe you're the kind of person who remembers which bush to burn in 'The Legend of Zelda' to find the labyrinth, or maybe you're the kind of person who remembers the score to some sports game years ago. Maybe you like to go around in a 'Star Trek' uniform, or you like to go around in a sports uniform. And I don't mean like a sports T-shirt, but the same jersey that the players in the game wear. Whatever the case, maybe, somehow, in our own ways, We're all nerds.

Other studies reveal that when we wear black, aggression increases...and that feels powerful. Researchers examined the statistics of more than 52,000 National Hockey League games and discovered that teams were penalized 10.2% more for aggression when wearing their black uniforms. In hockey, teams usually have two colors of jerseys and switch them for home and away games. When the teams wore a different color other than black, their penalties dropped overall.

And you’re cute when you get all flustered.” She narrowed her eyes at him and put one hand on her hip. “I have no idea how Louise allowed you to survive childhood.” “It’s because I’m younger and he was always bigger.” Louise came around the side of the truck. “We’re going to borrow your four-wheeler, if you don’t mind.” “Of course.” It wasn’t really hers. Not like she paid for it or anything. But Palmer always referred to it as hers, and so did Louise. And like just now, Louise asked before she hopped on it. “Hi, Tella,” Ames said when she saw Tella’s head poke around the pickup. Even though they were baling hay, Tella still wore the hockey jersey she loved. “Hi, Aunt Ames.” “Okay, Tella. Let’s run down to the house, so we can get back and work a little longer.” “Can I drive?” Louise looked back at Ames with raised brows. “Sure, if your mom says it’s okay.” Tella grinned. “It should be. She let me drive Uncle Palmer’s pickup out here.” “By yourself?” Tella nodded. “Wow. Make sure you wear your seatbelt just in case the wheels fall off.” “Hey.” Palmer put on a mock-hurt expression and wrapped an arm around Ames’s head like he was going to put her in a headlock. “That wasn’t nice. I don’t say mean things like that about your car.” The four-wheeler started, and the motor faded slowly into the distance. Palmer’s arm loosened and dropped to her shoulders. The weight of it there felt good and right. She straightened in his embrace. Maybe they’d never bale hay together again. She looked up into his clear, blue eyes. Eyes that held no guile. Just genuine honesty. And admiration. “You’re beautiful. With or without sunburned cheeks.” His arm tightened. What had simply been his arm around her shoulder became Palmer hugging her. Still maybe in line with friendship, but so close to more. She wanted more. But she wanted his friendship, too. Could she have both? Their kiss hadn’t made anything awkward. She tossed her head, moving closer until they were touching. “That

Hazel Hartley, my high school tutor who had a boyfriend, who can’t stand me and doesn’t date hockey players anymore. Despite Pippa wearing a Storm jersey with the name of her fiancé, goaltender Jamie Streicher, on the back, and despite Hartley working for the team, I haven’t seen her in a jersey since high school. Tonight, my gaze catches on her chestnut hair pulled up in a ponytail, her pale purple puffer jacket. I bet she’s wearing the black leggings that always make her ass look incredible. I wink at her; she rolls her eyes. I grin; she pretends to yawn.

The Return Season On March 19, 1995, Michael Jordan officially returned to the hardwood floor as an NBA player in a game against the Indiana Pacers wearing jersey number 45, which was his brother Larry’s number and the number he used while playing baseball. Still feeling the rust of being away from competitive basketball for nearly two years, Jordan only had 19 points on a poor 7 out of 28 shooting clip in that loss to the Pacers. But while the Bulls may have lost that outing, they were happy enough that they had the franchise’s greatest player back in time to help them with their playoff push. While Jordan took his sweet time getting his groove back, he still had scoring explosions even as he was shaking off the rust. On March 28th he helped avenge the Bulls’ seven-game series loss to New York the previous year by exploding for 55 points against the Knicks. Just three days before that, he had 32 in a win over the Atlanta Hawks. Just as the Chicago Bulls had hoped, they got the push they needed when Jordan returned to the team. They won 13 of the 17 regular-season games that MJ appeared in and went on to make the playoffs with a 47-win season. In that brief 17-game campaign, Michael Jordan averaged 26.9 points, 6.9 rebounds, and 5.3 assists while shooting 41.1% from the floor. It was clear that

but the best part is the jersey she’s wearing. She’s sporting number eleven, with “UNCLE ZEE” stitched right there on the back.   Logan: Do not show my husband this. He will kill me for letting her wear this, but I thought you’d get a kick out of seeing your favorite girl wearing your number.

Tess, do you want to be my sporty old lady?” he teases. “You wanna ride my dick and cheer for my team and wear my jersey to my games?

This woman is mine. My friend, my soulmate. She already wears my jersey and sleeps in my bed. Someday, she may even share my name. As we sink to the floor, unable to wait for more, the name rings true in my mind: Tess Langley. My Tess. The cataclysm that came and shook me up. Now she’s mine to love. Mine to cherish. Mine to make happy for the rest of my lucky fucking life. I smile, kissing her perfect lips. Nothing has ever felt so right.