I ran. I ran until my muscles burned and my veins pumped battery acid. Then I ran some more.
Torrance: This isn’t a democracy, it’s a cheer-ocracy. I’m sorry, I’m overruling you.
Courtney: You are being a cheer-tator, Torrance, and a pain in my ass!
Torrance: Do you know what this means? My entire cheerleading career has been a lie.
Missy: Well, look on the bright side – it’s only cheerleading!
Torrance: I *am* only cheerleading.
Hey, ladies, wanna see my spirit stick?
I don’t know what’s scarier: neurotic cheerleaders, or the pressure to win. I could make a killing selling something like “Diet Prozac.”
OK, so I never cheered before. So what? What about doing something that actually requires neurons?
Missy: See, I’m a hardcore gymnast. No way jumping up and down yelling, “Go, Team, Go!” is gonna satisfy me.
Torrance: We’re gymnasts too, except no beams, no bars, no vault.
Cheerleaders are dancers who have gone retarded. What you do is a tiny, pathetic subset of dancing.
The difference between Cal’s taste in art and mine is that I have some. They’re fascinating. It’s like being inside a dream or something. There’s truth but no logic.
I write songs that are like diary entries. I have to do it in order to feel sane.
Everybody has that point in their life where you hit a crossroads and you’ve had a bunch of bad days and there’s different ways you can deal with it and the way I dealt with it was I just turned completely to music.
Golf is deceptively simple, endlessly complicated. A child can play it well and a grown man can never master it. It is almost a science, yet it is a puzzle with no answer.
To a pitcher a base hit is the perfect example of negative feedback.
Baseball players are smarter than football players. How often do you see a baseball team penalized for too many men on the field?
There’s nothing wrong with the Little League World Series that locking out the adults couldn’t cure.