Word: winded
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...continent. As the first colony in sub-Saharan Africa to break away from its foreign master in the post-1945 era of independence, Ghana became the symbol of a land throwing off its shackles, the first breeze in what British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan would later dub "the wind of change." "The independence of Ghana is meaningless unless it is linked up with the total liberation of the African continent," said Nkrumah that night...
...Sadr has ordered his Mahdi Army to lie low and avoid direct confrontation with American troops. Al-Sadr himself and several of his top commanders are believed to have left for Iran. But few in Baghdad doubt that he will be back. "He is just bending to the wind because he knows his fighters can't face the Americans," says Hussain al-Moed, a rival Shi'ite cleric. "But he also knows that the Americans will leave. The Mahdi Army can afford to wait." Sunni jihadis have kept up their bombing campaign despite the security operation--and if they continue...
...environmentalists who advocate mandatory caps on carbon emissions. In order to halt global warming, reductions would need to be universal and compulsory, not sporadic and voluntary. Yet environmentalists still make individual efforts to reduce their carbon emissions—by buying a Prius, recycling, or paying a premium for wind energy...
...bubble is sadly lacking in aesthetic. But no worries—the jocks don’t care about looks when it comes to their stadiums. What really matters for the soccer, lacrosse, and rugby teams (among others) is that inside, the bubble is all business. After braving the wind tunnel known as JFK Street, the bubble beckons with heat and hot bodies. Pushing through the revolving doors, your ears pop from the change in pressure and you find yourself in unseasonable warmth. The air in the bubble, kept between 56 and 62 degrees Fahrenheit, smells distinctly of plastic...
...city woke up into a crisp, cheerful winter morning, fresh white powder finally coating streets after weeks of freakishly warm weather. And as frigid sunlight gives way to snowflakes swirling in punishing wind, I am watching an outdoor soccer match. In the field, the forward - No. 10 - slides on the fake turf, losing a bright orange football to an opponent. Frustrated cries burst from a gang of dedicated sexa-to-octogenerian fans. "Strike it! Oh my God! What's he doing?!" the men holler, bundled in heavy coats. Some of them have been following this once-famed Prague club, Slavia...