Word: worded
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...impossible task. The sport hasn't been particularly kind to blacks. The game is littered with racial hostilities toward black players, from both fans and opposing players. While the vitriol isn't as vicious as it was in O'Ree's day, Coleman has heard the n-word on the ice; just five years ago, some slob threw a banana at ex-Carolina Hurricanes goaltender Kevin Weekes during a playoff game...
...ensure he'd have the resources to make good on that boast, Venter joined hands with global technology giant Perkin-Elmer, forming a new company called Celera, which took its name from the middle of the word accelerate. The Celera-backed Venter and the NIH-backed Collins briefly explored collaborating, but those efforts fell through, and over the next two years the two camps worked feverishly, occasionally volleying in the press over whose method was better or whose intentions were purer. Collins sniffed at Venter's plans to create a genome database whose basic map he would make available...
...recent years, the last word on the dangers of eating mercury-rich fish seemed to be the government's well-publicized 2004 advisory, which recommended against eating too much higher mercury fish like white tuna, but whose warning applied only to pregnant or nursing women, women of childbearing age and young children. Though mercury overload could damage the still-developing nervous system of a baby, the scientific consensus was that for the average Joe taking in the average amount of fish, heavy with metals or not, it posed no undue threat...
...gesture of raising a drinking vessel to his mouth. I assumed this was an instruction to bring him coffee. In fact, he was proposing that we go to the pub, and by 11 a.m. we were at the Smuggler's Inn in the seaside town of Stanley. As word got around of Sinclair's whereabouts, uproarious characters - friends or contacts - began to stream in and a party ensued. Toward sunset, having drank steadily for the entire day and consumed no food besides peanuts and crisps, I was unconscious on a bench in the corner. Sinclair concluded my introduction to journalism...
...Completed just two weeks before his death, Tell Me a Story is imperfectly written but no less compelling for that - these are, after all, the words of a man ravaged by chemotherapy, who knew he was dying. But swaths of it are equal to Sinclair at his roaring, mid-period best. He never compensated for his tracheotomy by being verbose in print - on the contrary, having to choose every spoken word with great care taught him the value of writing with fierce economy. At the book's launch, four days before he died, Sinclair was too ill to even sign...