Word: awkwardness
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Last week, fighting Mickey Walker at the Chicago Stadium, Levinsky started out as though his pugilistic competence had suddenly become commensurate with his earning power. He ran out of his corner, danced about for two minutes waving his large hands in an awkward way, then whacked Walker's snubnosed face, first with a right, then with a hard left hook. Walker, dropped by the punches, got up before Referee Ed Purdy could start a count. He was groggy for the rest of the first round, wary for the next two, but he started a rally in the fourth. Fighting...
...fishers, who looked on the continent as a distant planet, he was a wonder and delight. By day he would wander along the beach, picking shells and tossing pebbles in the ocean, or telling fairy tales to the children. He never worked. In the fishing boats he was an awkward hand, and let them alone, but in the pub at evening a grand man for a pot of ale and a wild story of the foreign lands. They would sit and talk about his quiet manner and his witty speech, and why, do you think, he should be coming...
...began throwing stones into the window of a jewelry store. Four hussies were seen to escape with skirtsful of jewelry down a side street. By that time their feminine example had spurred the men to some really heavy looting. Auckland police, who have had no practice on mobs, made awkward efforts to clear Queen Street, but the first riot lasted four hours...
...ring canvas was spattered with blood. Reporters at the ringside held up newspapers to shield themselves. The referee had to wipe blood from his hands between rounds. But still the awkward, stooping little fighter advanced, his gloves now at his head for relief from the hammering it was getting, and now in furious, smashing action against the ribs and head of his opponent. The little fighter's flat nose, freshly broken, bubbled redly as he snorted for breath. His head rocked as punch after punch landed on it. But on & on he went, crowding, slamming, tearing in like...
...Britons is the bond of a mother tongue. Speeches were always in order?the smooth elegancies of a Davis, the high-flown outpourings of a Harvey, the salty blasts of a Dawes. But Ambassador Mellon is no public speaker. His words are bashful, stilted; his delivery, an awkward, almost inaudible mumble. Pilgrim dinners in London will probably not be so brilliant as they once were...