About me: Psalms 144:1 Praise be to the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle.-----------------------------------------
"Winning is not a sometime thing; it's an all the time thing. You don't win once in a while; you don't do things right once in a while; you do them right all the time. Winning is a habit. Unfortunately, so is losing. Every time a player goes to ply his trade he's got to fight from the ground up — from the soles of his feet right up to his head. Every inch of him has to play. Some guys play with their heads. That's O.K. You've got to be smart to be number one in any business. But more importantly, you've got to play with your heart, with every fiber of your body. If you're lucky enough to find a guy with a lot of head and a lot of heart, he's never going to come off the battlefield second. It is a reality of life that men are competitive and the most competitive games draw the most competitive men. That's why they are there — to compete. To know the rules and objectives when they get in the game. The object is to win fairly, squarely, by the rules — but to win. "And in truth, I've never known a man worth his salt who in the long run, deep down in his heart, didn't appreciate the grind, the discipline. There is something in good men that really yearns for discipline and the harsh reality of head to head combat. I don't say these things because I believe in the "brute" nature of man or that men must be brutalized to be combative. I believe in God, and I believe in human decency. But I firmly believe that any man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle — victorious."
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A Good Irish Fight
The bottom fell out the other night,
Names did not matter, men ready to fight.
None would take that unworthy plight,
To let anything happen, without a good Irish fight.
The scowl in the eyes, and grit of their teeth,
Would make the wisest of Sayers, take off with their feet.
They’d run with fury, to escape the rage of the fight,
When the Mick's get angry, they know they are right.
Now you wouldn’t believe what was seen on that night,
Left hooks were thrown, the Mick's danced with delight.
They know they could fight, with the best of them all,
Every man was there, till the very last call.
Bloody nose and black eye, badge of honor that night.
They laugh and joke, about that good Irish fight.
There were no better fighters from here to Dundee.
No doubt in their minds, they’d never run hide or flee.
How could a good Irish man, be proud of himself,
If he’d not fight with his heart, and be brave with no stealth.
Without first being a man, and ready to fight,
The Mick's stood proud, on that very same night.
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