A Quote by Tony Gonzalez

Don't tell me that the rules prohibit you from hitting a guy up top. You have a whole target area above his knee up to his neck that you can hit. — © Tony Gonzalez
Don't tell me that the rules prohibit you from hitting a guy up top. You have a whole target area above his knee up to his neck that you can hit.
Someone came up to me and told me that [his opponent's] knee was hurt, and he said to me, attack his knee, I'm like, 'Yeah right, I'm not going out to attack this guy's knee.' It just doesn't … it's not realistic to go after his injury, unless they got a cut the same week, then it's like, yeah, hit him in the eye, because the [expletive] is going to re-open and now you wouldn't fight on the cut. Maybe on a cut you want to take advantage of it, that makes sense.
He's at ease, his body sculpted to the music, his shoulder searching the other shoulder, his right toe knowing the left knee, the height, the depth, the form, the control, the twist of his wrist, the bend of his elbow, the tilt of his neck, notes digging into arteries, and he is in the air now, forcing the legs up beyond muscular memory, one last press of the thighs, an elongation of form, a loosening of human contour, he goes higher and is skyheld.
I'm a counterpuncher. I don't have a choice. If you look what they say about me, it's terrible. I mean, they say terrible things about me. Bobby Jindal - I mean, you talk about lightweights, this guy is a real lightweight. And he hit me - I don't even know this man - and he hit me because - and they're not hitting me on fact. They're hitting me in order to try to pick up something in their polls.
I'm going out with these old guys. One guy gave me a hickey and left his teeth in my neck. Another man, we were having a perfectly lovely dinner; he looked up and me and went: You're not my wife! Another guy died during dinner. I had to go in his pocket to get the American Express card. Then you wonder: What would he tip? Another guy said: I want you to meet my family, and took me to the cemetery.
Like I always said, Carson Palmer got hit in his knee in 2005 but there was no rule made. Then Tom Brady got hit in his knee and all of a sudden there is a rule and possible suspensions, excessive fines - it's just getting ridiculous.
From his neck down a man is worth a couple of dollars a day, from his neck up he is worth anything that his brain can produce.
Tie me up, please... Chantal said. They looked above at some vines and roots hanging down from the grassy area above the depression in the canal they were standing in. She was in his hands-he had to comply. A little bit of kink was one of the most delicious of erotic pleasures. Catholic school girls were often the horniest-Brett could hardly contain his elation.
I'm the guy who will persist in his path. I'm the guy who will make you laugh. I'm the guy who strives to be open. I'm the guy who's been heartbroken. I'm the guy who has been on his own, and I'm the guy who's felt alone. I'm the guy who holds your hand, and I'm the guy who will stand up and be a man. I'm the guy who tries to make things better. I'm the guy who's the whitest half Cuban ever. I'm the guy who's lost more than he's won. I'm the guy who's turn, but never spun. I'm the guy you couldn't see. I'm that guy, and that guy is me.
It pumps me up - the whole idea of the bowler marking his run-up, popping at the crease, the crowd chanting, nerves building up. It's a very good feeling. Right from the first ball, I know I have to be at the top of my game.
As a guy develops and practices his masculinity, he is accompanied by an invisible male chorus of all the other guys, who hiss orcheer as he attempts to approximate the masculine ideal, who push him to sacrifice more of his humanity for the sake of his masculinity, and who ridicule him when he holds back. The chorus is made up of all the guy's comrades and rivals, his buddies and bosses, his male ancestors and his male cultural heroes--and above all, his father, who may have been a real person in his life, or may have existed only as the myth of the man who got away.
Derek lunged. He hit me in the shoulder and knocked me to the floor, landing on top of me. His body jerked, like he'd been hit with the spell, and I let out a yelp, struggling to get up, but he held me down, whispering "I'm okay, it's okay" until the words penetrated.
All the screen cowboys behaved like real gentlemen. They didn't drink, they didn't smoke. When they knocked the bad guy down, they always stood with their fists up, waiting for the heavy to get back on his feet. I decided I was going to drag the bad guy to his feet and keep hitting him.
Hey." She said, looking up from an open book propped up on one knee. She brushed a few strands of pale hair out of her face. Her boyfriend, Christian, lay on the floor near her, his head propped up on her other knee. He greeted me by way of a nod. Concidering the antagonism the sometimes flared up between us, that was almost on par with him giving me a bear hug.
Both my assistant and my wife tell me that during battle scenes, when a character is making a 'guwaa' sort of face, my face also ends up going 'guwaa.' So afterwards, my whole face is tired. I guess it's because I'm the kind of guy who gets caught up in his own work.
To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first, and call whatever you hit the target
And there stood Basta with his foot already on another dead body, smiling. Why not? He had hit his target, and it was the target he had been aiming for all along: Dustfinger’s heart, his stupid heart. It broke in two as he held Farid in his arms, it simply broke in two, although he had taken such good care of it all these years.
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