end zone dance

sooooooooooophia  asked:

Can you do a Josh imagine where y/n twists their ankle and he helps you while you cry and elevates your foot and gets all fluffy; I just twisted mine real bad and this would hep

Hi! Sure, Sorry this is so late! I hope you’re feeling better :)

You laughed loudly as you grabbed the football out of your boyfriend’s grip. You ignored his cries of defeat as you ran past the tree that was previously decided to be the end zone.
Your victory dance was short lived, however, as you felt your heel slip into a hole. You cried out in pain as you fell to the ground, but Josh was by your side in seconds. “A-Are you okay? What happened? What hurts?”
You sucked in air through your teeth as Josh ran his fingers along your ankle. He looked up at your face and you nodded. It was definitely your ankle.
Without hesitating, Josh picked you up bridal style and carried you inside.

He laid you down on the couch gently, but you almost screamed in pain when he used a pillow to elevate your foot. He apologized over and over again.

“Do you want me to call an ambulance? Or maybe urgent care?”
You laughed a little. “No, Josh, it’s okay! Just ice, please? And maybe some ibuprofen or something?”
“See, this is why you’re the smart one.” You heard Josh rifling around in the kitchen until he came back with the ice and medicine.
“Thanks,” you smiled before taking the ibuprofen.
Josh gently set the ice pack on your swelling ankle. You closed your eyes until you couldn’t feel your foot.
“Hey, Josh?” Josh stopped pacing and looked back at you. “Thank you.”
Josh smiled. It was a worried smile, but it was still a smile.
“I just wish I could do more,” he said before lowering his voice to a whisper. “I just don’t like to see you hurt.” Josh walked over to you and crouched down so that he was next to your head.
You smiled and ran your fingers through his hair. “I’ll be good as new in a week or two.”
“I sure hope so,” Josh smiled, kissing your forehead.


Filthiest end zone dance of the season. He should have been given points for this masterpiece!

Save Yourself

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I think if we continue to remind ourselves that no one is going to save us and that we have to save ourselves, we’ll accomplish much more than we have ever dreamed possible. Stop waiting for Prince Charming or Ms. Right to come along and hand you your dreams. I love that Jim Rohn once said something along the lines of: if someone hands you a football and you walk it across the goal line without facing any opposition…is that a touch down? No!

Success is about the struggle, the hustle, that defensive line from the other team trying to keep you from crossing that line for the touch down. I promise you, if you do the work and quit waiting for someone to rescue you…you will be successful.

Got your end zone dance ready?

sheertara138  asked:

I don't follow football but I just learned end zone dances are policed. Without looking up the backstory on this I'm just assuming it has got to be because people complained about seeing happy black dudes on TV.

That’s probably pretty close.


My nickname in high school was Sponge. That’s me. Sponge as a cheesesteak for halloween 2009. 

Not sponge as in Spongebob “use my nose as a part-time flute” Squarepants… Perhaps I was a Sponge in the way that I regurgitate geography facts, or better yet, the way bread is used as a sponge to soak up sauce you’re not allowed to indecorously lick off your plate. My parents always thought it had a negative connotation, and when I relay the Sponge factor to new acquaintances, the pose the same question – who wants to be called that

Sponge came about my junior year of high school, the year I started to become “cool” or whatever. That doesn’t mean popular. I wasn’t one of those kids whose parents let us play beer pong, get trashed and give each other blowjobs. That’s what all the popular kids were doing according to trashy Facebook photos. Honestly, that’s all they still seem to do, except now it’s legal. It’s still trashy. 

I just felt like I was not… disliked anymore. And that was a relief. 

I went around that first day of 11th grade, to a whole new crop of teachers who hadn’t yet been tested with overly ethnic names. Unfortunately, my neighborhood, formerly home to a catastrophically large marijuana ring as well as Kobe Bryant’s high school (not my high school), was not as famous for its diversity. Hell, I was convinced I was white for the first 16 years of my life. Who knew that taking the SATs could bring about such a seismic identity shift?

The Day: I went in to each classroom, took a seat, and slowly the teacher would go through the names, the beautiful smattering of Waspy, Jewy, and other white people names. 

TEACHER: “James Butler, ok. Aileen Caldwell, sure. Kaitlyn Cohen, why not? And… uh…. Um………………….”

ANJALI: “That one’s me, I’m here.” 

TEACHER: “Are you…?” 

ANJALI: “Don’t worry about it. You can just call me Ang”

TEACHER: “No I really want to say it right.”

Okay guy, I get it. You saw Freedom Writers and this means a lot to you. (Note: I’m just kidding, Mr. Callahan, you still scare me. Sorry again for doing an interpretative dance as a presentation on the New Deal to “Candyman” by Christina Aguilera). 

ANJALI: “Okay fine. So it’s like… It’s like Sponge…ali. Sponge-ali, and then remove the S-P. Anjali.” 

TEACHER: “Spongeali?”

ANJALI: “Anjali”

TEACHER: “Well, okay then.” 

After class, this kid comes up to me and says, “that was funny” - inside I thought, “really? me?” I would’ve done an end zone dance if I could, but I don’t know what an end zone is… (just kidding, I have watched Friday Night Lights). After that, he started calling me Sponge, and slowly, so did everyone else. Sponge this, Sponge that! Once when I was in gym class, a freshman came up to me nervously and asked if he too could call me Sponge. Of course you can, sport! Don’t do drugs! 

I still respond to it. I hear the word “sponge” and I turn my head. When I come home, my high school friends still call me that. A couple call me “Spong” because once, I entered a hot wing eating competition, and when my friend wrote my name on my forehead, he couldn’t fit the E. I was Spong, Sponge, Spongeali. My best friend Aubrey calls me that, especially in drunk texts where we talk about being best friends forever. Those things usually don’t mean anything, but so far, we’ve kept our word. 

I still don’t know whether I like it or not. It’s been over six years, and I still don’t know. But how much do you really like your name? I have though about so many other names that I like better, like Maya or Elaine. (Note: Don’t name your kid Drogo or Khaleesi or Direwolf, you’re an idiot.) I love the names Maya and Elaine, but I don’t want them to be my name. Anjali suits me just fine. Even when I found out that my brother was dating and would eventually marry a girl also named Anjali, I didn’t want to change that either. I wanted her to change her name, and did have many conversations with my father about how we could make that happen. Alas, I could not and she and I are both named Anjali Desai to this day. True Story. 

I don’t think I mind. I don’t give it much thought. Even as I write, I have a hard time posing the question to myself. I didn’t pick Anjali as my name - why should Sponge be any different? My mom told me before she left me at college that no one was allowed to call me Sponge. Not there, not anywhere. Not anymore. She always abhorred it. “Ew” she’d say, every time she heard my friends say it. Thanks, Mom - way to be cool. Her mandate was that all of New York would know me as Anjali Shivraj Desai. My name is important. Who I am is important. 

As much as I didn’t enjoy being commanded, it wouldn’t have been right to introduce myself as Sponge. I’m happy that my mom was wiser than I could be, even if she didn’t know it. I’m a good daughter, and I did her bidding. Sponge was not to make an appearance at NYU. 

I can’t imagine that if American Pie’s Stiffler went to college (could he get into college?), he’d be able to feasibly explain how everyone called him “The Stiffler”. Not even simply explain, but have everyone in his new habitat adopt it the same way. It wouldn’t have had the same meaning there as it did with Finch and whoever Jason Biggs played (He had sex with pie, we need to move on culturally). Despite Stiffler being his last name, it was also a verb. It was a way of being acceptably rowdy, obnoxious, loud and unapologetic. Sponge was jovial, and friendly, and snarky… I guess. I felt I had the verb component. It didn’t feel to me like just a name by the end and then all of a sudden it was gone. 

When I’m at home, it feels different now. I sit with my high school friends in a basement drinking beer, and I get the feeling that they’re waiting for someone to show up that no longer exists. Anymore, when I’m back in preppy, suburban Philadelphia, I hang out with my dog, Indiana Jones. He’s great. He looks like this: 

To have remained that way, that Spongey self, would’ve been to stop a natural progression. Sure it was safe, but it wasn’t really right. Being “Sponge” was the first time I felt people genuinely like me. Anyone. Even my parents. As Sponge, I got the sense that people heard me, felt my presence and thought it added something to their environment. From what shows like Doug and Hey Arnold! told me, to have a nickname means someone talks about you, and thinks about you. That name is then associated with the feeling they have when you’re around. Before I was Sponge, I felt nothing. To feel something, even as this Sponge, was magical. But now, Sponge is gone. It’s not so much an alter ego as it is a predecessor. 

I can feel magical all on my own. As Anjali. 

None of the people I follow on twitter were hating on her, but some of them were retweeting into my timeline things other people were saying. And boy were they saying some shit. 

I don’t get it.  You just watched the greatest athlete in the world - that’s right, greatest athlete in the world - work her way to victory and then you watched her react with joy and grace and you somehow find a way to disparage her. What the fuck is wrong with you people?

Do you fear a strong, dominant, confident woman? Do you fear a strong, dominant, confident, black woman? Does a woman with perfectly toned muscles somehow bother you? Does a woman who dominates her sport and does it with such grace somehow bother you?

Is it her reaction to winning? I don’t see you lambasting other athletes - male athletes - who spike balls or do an end zone dance or high five each other or dance around the dugout after a home run. Is it because she’s solo she’s somehow supposed to act more subdued? Celebrating with herself - really, with the crowd, is frowned upon? Celebrating her own victory is not ok with you for whatever reason?

Serena is a joy. She’s a national treasure. She’s a victorious, powerful, beautiful, wealthy, outspoken woman and the fact that you have a problem with that speaks way more about you than it does about her. That about 90% of the negative comments I read were from men really says something.

We - Americans, that is - should be celebrating her victory in an international tournament the way we just celebrated the women who won the World Cup. Where’s her parade? Where’s her recognition? Where is her respect? 

Is she a perfect human being? Hell no. But none of the other athletes you put on pedestals are, either. Yet you raise them up as heroes and overlook their flaws and the second a strong woman lines up to be part of that long line of fabulous athletes waiting to be recognized - deserving to be recognized -  you want to knock her down for things you actually praise your heroic men for doing. 

Stop being so afraid of people who are obviously better than you at life. Give them their due. Or how about just shutting up and not letting your jealousy, sexism, racism or inferiority complex show?