Word: paunches
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...epitome of a certain breed of winning football coach, a giant tending to paunch since his playing days, a man with a muscular glad-hand and sharp tongue, a celebrity of sorts who had had so much acclaim that he floated on an air of supreme self-confidence, certain that things would be fine-so long as he won. Once, when the student paper at his alma mater, North Carolina, took him to task for "playing to win and win alone," Big Jim Tatum replied: "Winning isn't the most important thing-it's the only thing...
...Chicago before going in 1939 to Harvard, where the Institute of Classical Studies was set up especially for him. Fondly called "Zeus" by colleagues, Jaeger was one of Harvard's least pretentious teachers, delivered gentle-voiced lectures while gazing out the window with his hands on his round paunch, loved to answer his own questions to doctoral candidates as a kind of final blessing. Scholar Jaeger will stay in Cambridge, continue his great critical edition (ten volumes) of the works of Gregory of Nyssa,* the first such attempt since the French Revolution. Said Harvard Greek Professor John Finley...
...Irish-bred Princequillo. Foaled on the Kentucky farm of A. B. ("Bull'') Hancock, Round Table was running as a three-year-old in 1957 when he caught the fancy of his present owner. A younger brother of Oklahoma's Senator Robert Kerr, with the same family paunch and financial punch (oil, uranium), Travis Kerr, 56, suspected that Round Table might become the great horse he needed for the mildly successful stable he started in 1949. When Hancock asked for $175,000, Kerr sent Veterinarian John Peters and Trainer Molter to Hialeah, where Round Table was running...
Rodeo tromps the Boston Garden sable each night at eight, featuring the real and unreal of vaquerdom, paunch-sing Gene Autry, and pigtails-fringe-flap Annie Oakley...
...revelation begins. Casals sits in a straight chair, dough-faced, tubby, so tiny that his feet no more than reach the floor. With eyes closed, and the fat fiddle hugged to his paunch, he looks more like a village baker dozing over a sack of meal than any possible kind of artist. But then he begins to play. Sudden, full, supple, the big contralto of the cello speaks. The music rushes like a river from a cave. And soon the audience may become aware of a peculiar thing. When Casals plays, it is no more possible to sort...