Word: baldingly
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...about this. I could never for an instant imagine myself performing the feats of these uniformed supermen; yet thinking about Sunday's heroes does offer relief from mundane cares. When I fall asleep, however, I begin to dream middle-aged dreams. I dream that I am old, egg-bald Y.A. Tittle in high-top shoes, running a bootleg into the end zone on my weary legs. Or I dream of being Sonny Jurgensen, proudly puffing out my potbelly as if it were a chest, fading back and letting go with the most accurate arm in the game. And when...
...what he has done. Drawn in a mock-fumbly, endearing line, hooded Klansmen, looking like half-inflated dirigibles, sit plotting together in cheap hotel rooms, or ride in a jalopy through city streets, or, cigar in fist, survey piles of bodies. Sometimes they are seen in confabulation with a bald, pink-necked Southern sheriff. Now and then a hand, suggestive of God's accusing finger, pops out of the pink sky to stop them dead in their tracks...
Afterward, while the spectator fleet blared horns and shot flares into the darkening sky, the Intrepid crew gleefully doused Picker's bald head with champagne. Tradition also dictated that they heave him in the drink-which they did with dispatch, thus producing the memorable sight of the two skippers treading water and shaking hands. Yet the end of the 21st cup defense was only a beginning. What used to be a private competition between the U.S. and its English-speaking cousins (Canada, Britain, Australia) is becoming an event of Olympian proportions. As of last week, a tentative line...
...black enlisted men in ten and half as many officers now wear Afro style haircuts though most whites object to them. "I had an Afro cut," Air Force Sgt. Herbert Harrison of Trenton, N.J., complained bitterly. "But I went through hell wearing it. So I shaved my head bald...
...found, in short, not much fire in The Bald Soprano, and I began to notice trivial things like the close atmosphere in the poorly ventilated basement room in which the plays were presented. I wondered how Mr. Smith could be reading an obituary of Bobby Watson in the Times Literary Supplement. My mind was wandering from the focus hit in the first play when Jack, surrounded by swarming relatives, screamed: "Words, what crimes are committed in your name...