Words matter. These are the best Stephen Rodrick Quotes, and they’re great for sharing with your friends.
More than any other major sport, professional or amateur, college football games are decided by the physical incompetence and downright chokery of their players.
I’ve seen few things more depressing than the end-of-season Giants-Padres series in 2001 in which Barry Bonds hit his 68th homer of the year while a .227-hitting, rapidly fossilizing Rickey Henderson staggered like a delirious marathoner toward 3,000 hits.
Some eco groups suggest that as many as 73 million sharks are killed globally every year. Hammerheads, blue sharks, mako sharks – they’re disappearing, and they ain’t coming back.
Unlike the LeBrons and A-Rods of the world, anointed as special from pre-K, Matt Leinart exudes an approachability rarely seen in superstars. It’s why kids on the autograph line chat him up like a buddy with whom they could stay up late playing Xbox.
Rick Rubin eats no cheese.
Think about it: You’re trying to raise cash to save an endangered animal. You’ve got orphaned pandas getting 3 trillion YouTube hits, and you’ve got seals being clubbed over the head by roughnecks. The money flows in. But what about the poor shark?
NFL fans have less sympathy for fallen players than the Romans had for blind Christians.
Celebs that hit the West Hollywood/Beverly Hills quadrant and places like the Urth Caffe are not exactly trying to keep a low profile; it’s sort of like if LeBron James went to an ESPN Zone and then whined about being hounded for autographs.
I grew up in a town without fathers.
From the outside, Rick Rubin’s house above Zuma Beach is a generic millionaire beach home. There’s a rarely used tennis court and a circular drive.
‘TMZ’ has the cash to buy off valets and info like flight lists or even the limo list of what celeb is being picked up where and when.
I arrive a month premature, with my dad’s brains but not much else.
There’s no doubt Matt Leinart loves his son very much.
Baseball loyalists cite the game’s legendary numbers – 300 wins, 500 homers, 3,000 hits – as evidence of the sport’s elegance, beauty, and gravitas. What no one mentions is how wretched and painful it is to actually watch a former star gasp and sputter his way toward a legendary number.
Peter Rodrick was one of only around 4,000 men in the world qualified to land jets on a carrier after dark.
Before Angelina Jolie became a humanitarian, she was best known for wearing a vial of blood around her neck and kissing her brother.
Matt Leinart’s L.A. duplex looks more like a Chuck E. Cheese safe house than a millionaire jock’s crash pad. There’s the requisite leather couch and flat-screen television, but the rest of the ground floor is bare except for a pile of Nick Jr. DVDs, a high chair, and a SpongeBob SquarePants director’s chair.
One of the hallmarks that a British actor brings to his public persona is an adept sense of self-deprecation – see Daniel Craig and Damian Lewis.
The everybody-loves-Jeff Bridges home base is, of course, ‘The Big Lebowski.’
Maybe it’s impossible to spend time with Patrick Stewart and not have the conversation move to the extraterrestrial.
When superstars go down, no matter how sympathetic the circumstances, fans know the franchise could be sunk.
A colleague once nicknamed me – half mocking – the ‘magical stranger’ because I get people to tell me things.
As a kid, Terry Bradshaw didn’t amaze me. My hero was Steelers backup Terry Hanratty, who nabbed two Super Bowl rings while completing three passes.
Some historians trace the start of the War on Terror to November 4, 1979, the day the hostages were taken in Tehran.
Rick Rubin’s undulating face hair is just as famous as his body of work. In homage to the yogis he read about as a boy on Long Island, Rubin hasn’t shaved since he was 23. It’s long been his registered trademark.
As anyone who has read ‘Sports Illustrated’s Steve Rushin knows, it’s quite possible to write an unreadable column without being a TV pundit. But if you want to be a consistently good columnist, you can’t be on television.
I was a classic attention deficit disorder kid, always bored and mouthing off at school.
There are times when a sports figure doesn’t deserve sympathy.
Legends like Jim Murray at the ‘Los Angeles Times’ and Shirley Povich at the ‘Washington Post’ were the most beloved guys at their papers. They’d write a cherished column for 30 years, and that was it. There was nothing else to do, no higher job to attain.
Occasionally, a young catcher is born with a backup’s soul. Bob Montgomery was on the Red Sox opening day roster for the entire 1970s, yet he never had more than 254 at-bats in a season.
