Word: grassed
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...audience know it too. His commentary is a whir of windmilling arms and an exuberant bark of POW!, WHAM! and ZAP! as the linemen collide. The fans have come to recognize the All-Madden players by their grimier shirts and more human qualities. They know Madden favors real grass over artificial turf and mud over dirt. From last Thanksgiving's broadcast: "That's kind of the way the game should be played. I mean -- Thanksgiving Day, the fireplace, the turkey, football players out there playing in the snow. Wet, mud, stuff like that, not carpet...
Like Carter, Hart and other once obscure presidential hopefuls, Babbitt is betting his candidacy on its first test: the Feb. 8 Iowa caucuses. Though he is still low in the polls, his organization is razor sharp in both Iowa and New Hampshire, where grass-roots efforts are particularly crucial...
That shift came dramatically and unexpectedly. The representative of the city's unfashionable eastern district for more than a decade, Agnos badly trailed Front Runner Molinari in early polls and fund raising. But tactless campaign mailings and a poor television-debate performance hurt Molinari. Agnos' superb grass-roots organization, as well as his advocacy of rent controls and affordable housing, turned the campaign around. Agnos nearly outpolled all ten other candidates in November's general election to set up last week's landslide...
...watershed. The soil surface is hard-capped and smooth -- no water can penetrate. The anthills are empty, and under the ground there are no worms. Only the tracks of jackrabbits and kangaroo rats mark the land. We're told this was once a cow pasture knee high in grass. The owners hunted antelope and quail here, and their steers were taken to market fat. Then we are told, "The city set aside this land 30 years ago for urban development and took the livestock off. It suffers from too much rest. The ecological functioning of water, minerals, plants and animals...
...long ago, in fact, that I was having lunch one fine autumnal afternoon with Donald Trump at the Four Seasons. The beige and russet of his handsomely cut tweed jacket seemed to echo, sartorially, the earth tones in the wind-swept, dying grass outside the window. "I will do anything for money," he confided. "But I must have money--huge, pointlessly huge amounts of it." I still grow nostalgic when I think of that afternoon. Someday, quite soon in fact, his eternal soul will be mine to torture for endless centuries above a pit of burning sulfer...