Best 3811 quotes in «football quotes» category

Anti-intellectualism is one thing, but faith in wrongheaded pseudointellectualism is far worse.

Appearances can be misleading. You just never know what’s inside someone until he’s tested.

Arsenal play pretty-boy football. Good to watch on the telly, but there’s no real grit in their play.

As of today, you do anything that I feel is disrespecting our program in any way, you are gone! From this day forward, everyone will be at practice in uniform as we will either build this program into something or we will destroy it!

As the Protestants celebrate a goal, they're egged on by the team captain, a long-haired Italian called Lorenzo Amoruso, who has the look of a 1980s male model. Flailing his arms, he urges them to sing their anti-Catholic songs louder. The irony is obvious: Amoruso is a Catholic. For that matter, so are most of the Rangers players. Since the late nineties, Rangers routinely field nearly as many Catholics as Celtic. Their players come from Georgia, Argentina, Germany, Sweden, Portugal and Holland, because money can buy no better ones. Championships mean more than religious purity.

At the end of the week, when we sat down to dinner, all eyes went to the trays on the table, where browned-to-perfection mini corn dogs cuddled up against a variety of dipping sauces. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” A lineman wiped a tear from his eye. “It’s like Christmas,” I said, all choked up. “I love you, Coach.” The quarterback’s bottom lip quivered. We dove into the pile of savory sausages, watched NFL football, and forgot our aches, pains, and camp struggles.

At a play-off game with the Chargers, goose bumps ran down my arms as I rushed through the smoke-filled tunnel onto the field. The energy and voices of 70,000 screaming fans can turn even a veteran player’s determined squint into the wide eyes of a child on Christmas morning. While the cheerleaders performed and urged on the crowd, running back Danny Woodhead turned to me. “Can you believe we get to do this?

A team goal requires a team effort.

Aufgabe des Ökonomen ist es nicht, über die grundsätzliche Wahrscheinlichkeit, mit der sportliche Talente die in sie gesetzten Erwartungen erfüllen, zu befinden, sondern ebendiese durch eine leistungsorientierte Vergütung zu erhöhen.

Before one day, which will mean the day before today, I just played chess with a friend the strategies were incrediable the moves which I made were wise and I win the two games... This happens in other games also, however today I and two my friends we played football it ended 7 for me and my friend and for the other fried 5-6 somewhere there... We just played football!

Batting is like another language for Sachin, he always answers his critics by this language.

Becoming a footballer is only the first half of the silent prayer a kid offers up to the sky or confides to his teacher in a primary school essay. The second part is the name of the team he wants to play for.

Before success can truly become routine, there must be that transition from that wanting/hoping to have success toward honestly knowing you can earn success with your talents and work ethic.

Coaches must take calculated risks all the time. One thing is to talk about what you plan to do and another is to prepare and then execute a plan toward change.

Being fired is part of the risk when anyone plans to take on the responsibility as a head coach.

Century was an occasional thing in cricket, Sachin made it frequent.

Characters may lend the action a certain colouring, but it is what happens that comes first. To overlook this while watching a tragedy would be like treating a football game simply as the acts of a set of solitary individuals, or as chance for each of them to display 'personality'. The fact that some players behave as though this is precisely what football games are about should not distract us from this point.

Being a football fan entitles us to a temporary, recurring retreat, a short holiday from real existence. Our lives can be in chaos and nothing seem fixed. Nothing except how we feel on a Saturday at 3pm, when we are elevated into blissful and infuriating distraction. What a privilege that is.

Britt-Marie moves out of the way as if the ball was trying to spit at her.

But it’s over. It’s over and you know it- No League Championships. No FA Cups. No European Cups- The roar and the whistle. The applause and the adoration- Finished forever. Second best. Forever.

CHRISTMAS EVE: There’s a fire blazing in the fireplace, food enough for five thousand, and a new TV as big as Wyoming tuned to a football game no one cares about.

Coaching is like riding a roller coaster with many ups and downs. The true test is weathering the storm. The average length of time anywhere in America that a man is a head high school football coach is three years.

Critics of soccer contend that the game inherently culminates in death and destruction. They argue that the game gives life to tribal identities which should be disappearing in a world where a European Union and globalization are happily shredding such ancient sentiments. Another similar widely spread thesis that holds that the root cause of violence can be found in the pace of the game itself. Because goals come so irregularly, fans spend far too much time sublimating their emotions, anticipating but never releasing. When those emotions swell and become uncontainable, the fans erupt into dark, Dionysian fits of ecstatic violence.

Crystal Palace, Man City and West Ham bring good support. They never stop singing. As do teams like Leicester, Cardiff and (although I hate to admit it) QPR. I can’t stand West Brom, but at least they come in fine voice. But it would be fair to say that the Arsenal support is atrocious

Die ausgetretenen Pfade verlässt bloß, wer Randsportarten aufwertet, ohne dabei den Massensportarten Abtrag zu tun und sie unbotmäßig in Misskredit zu bringen.

Der Randsport ist gemessen am Massensport ein schweres Brot. Und wenn der Markt die Leistung einer Randsportart faktisch ignoriert, nichts davon wissen will, welche Qualen Kunstturnerinnen etwa leiden, lässt das aufhorchen, gibt das noch jedem Ökonomen der Welt zu denken.

De La Salle hung on for the 28-21 victory. Afterward, Ladouceur stood before his exhausted team. It was by far the biggest victory in school history at the time, but the coach noticed that several of his players wore masks of disappointment. "It's OK to feel disappointed if you didn't play your absolute best," he told them. "That's what we're all about.

Dialogue in the works of autobiography is quite naturally viewed with some suspicion. How on earth can the writer remember verbatim conversations that happened fifteen, twenty, fifty years ago? But 'Are you playing, Bob?' is one of only four sentences I have ever uttered to any Arsenal player (for the record the others are 'How's the leg, Bob?' to Bob Wilson, recovering from injury the following season; 'Can I have your autograph, please?' to Charlie George, Pat Rice, Alan Ball and Bertie Mee; and, well, 'How's the leg, Brian?' to Brian Marwood outside the Arsenal club shop when I was old enough to know better) and I can therefore vouch for its absolute authenticity.

Even if you are having a nightmare day during which nothing will go right, never cease looking for the ball. In the end everything will come right, for football is a game that rewards those who show courage.

Don’t you want to get well? Come on, Portia, this won’t be forever, mate: Dad’s confident, everyone’s behind you. Remember,’ I gave her an encouraging punch on the arm, ‘you’ll never walk alone, even if you are an Evertonian.’ She burst into floods of tears. ‘You mean I’ll never walk again!

ESPN, is having the ability to foretell future outcomes in sports.

Everyone knows the song that Millwall fans sing, to the tune of „Sailing”: 'No one likes us/No one likes us/No one likes us/We don't care.' In fact I have always felt that the song is a little melodramatic, and that if anyone should sing it, it is Arsenal. Every Arsenal fan, the youngest and the oldest, is aware that no one likes us, and every day we hear that dislike reiterated.

Football said,"Why I am not a cricket ball to get a shot from Sachin".

Football Coaches do play football matches; their attitudes toward the game in times of tendencies of losing can cause a change in the scores of the games they monitor and mentor!

[Football] has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence: in other words it is war minus the shooting.

Football is the poetry of a motion.

Football’s power to unite can be stronger than its ability to divide though. For the people of Ağdam: as long as there’s football, there’s hope.

Every time our great Country has been critically challenged either by dictators or terrorists, we as a Country have put aside our personal agendas and focused on doing what we need to do to win when threatened.

Explaining the myriad delights of a football Saturday in the South to anyone who has not enjoyed them may be impossible – like trying to describe the ocean to a blind man.

Fitchett smiled to himself. He loved this bit, when it’s about to kick off. Half terror, half ecstasy. The adrenaline surging through him like an electric current. His breathing coming in short gasps and his stomach trying to push its way up through his throat. ‘The Buzz’ they called it. And they were right. Fitchett was buzzing, this was what it was all about for him. This blast of magic.

Football is an art players paint with their feet.

Football becomes rather insignificant in the face of the viciousness of conflict and there are many in Azerbaijan who has suffered a far worse fate than those involved with Qarabag. But bearing the Karabakh horses on their chests, Qarabag players are the voice of a displaced refugees, and this the tale of a team that just wouldn’t give up.

Football teams that lost their matches can have many other chances to play in successive seasons; but a soul that is lost through death may not have the chance to justify its potential again!

He'd never considered sweet and conservative to be so hot, but damn, Emma wore it well.

Gareth Miller grabbed the beer first, then the hotdog, because if there’s one thing you don’t want to be caught dead without at these sorts of events it’s beer. The hotdog was strictly for show, a prop, a way of blending in. Burst of static in his right ear: “G-man, you read me? What’s yo’ twenty, dawg?” Gareth departed the concession stand, stopped, looked down at his hands, and tossed the hotdog into the first trash receptacle he saw. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into the cuff of his long-sleeved tee. “Concession stand, Section B. Over.” Allowing his hand to linger by his chin, he gingerly scratched his cheek as if he had meant to do it all along. The same voice: “Yo, I’m in position. Ready when you is.” Gareth cringed while crossing the wide concourse, checking both directions. The giant hallway was the main drag of a ghost town, its only residents a solitary custodian sweeping debris into a portable waste bin and the concession crew to his rear.

He hadn't developed into the accomplished running quarterback many had predicted he would become over the course of the season. But he had come to personify this team. He was raw and untested when the season began, but he played his two best games in the two biggest games on the schedule. He wasn't the player anybody expected him to be, but he got the job done-at times spectacularly.

He wants to play major college football at a university far away, where nobody will know about his tragic family history. Then he wants to play in the NFL. Every catch brings him closer to that reality. That's how he thinks of it, anyway. Every time he runs downfield, sees the ball in the air, and hears the defensive back laboring to catch up, whenever he feels that ball fall out of the sky and into his waiting hands, he inches closer to his goals.

He looks at me, the circle, then me again. “It’s really you, right? I didn’t create some simulacrum that was inhabited by a demon? Prove it’s you. Say something only Spencer would say.” “Like what?” “Say something annoying.” I think about it. “Well, you claim to be British, there’s really only one thing I can think of.” “That being?” I lean in close, my lips gently brushing his ear. “Soccer.” He shoves me away. “Fuck. You. It’s foot… Yeah, it’s you.

He once told me, Instead of scoring thirty goals a season, why don't you score twenty-five and help someone else to score fifteen? That way the team's ten goals better off.

I crawled back to bed, knowing I was done for. Hours later, the phone in our room started ringing. It was George. He was not happy. "Room 312. Now!" he shouted. Bouldy got up. I tried to pull myself together, splashing my face with water and hauling on my shorts and flip flops. It was a lovely day outside, the sun was scorching hot and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, but it might as well have been a pissing wet morning in St Albans for all I cared. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach as we made the Walk of Death to Room 312, which I knew was Paul and Gus's room. When we walked in, I thought I'd arrived in downtown Baghdad. Water dripped from the ceiling. The board games were in pieces and all the plastic parts were scattered over the floor. The balcony window was wide open and I could see a bed upended by the pool outside.