Dad Quotes - Page 100

As a kid in Fayetteville, N.C., I played golf all day, every day, a lot of it by myself. I spent hundreds of hours around the greens at Cape Fear Valley, the course my dad owned, hitting every shot I could think of - the one-hop-and-release, the chip that lands dead, the explosion from a bad lie.

My dad taught me about music. He used to tap dance.

And the odd think in Dad's voice was the sound truth makes being said.

My dad always tell me to make decisions from love and not from fear.

My mother and I are more than best friends; we are partners in crime. After she and my father, Quincy Jones, separated when I was 10 years old, my sister, Kidada, who was 12, went to live with our dad, and I stayed with my mother.

My Dad taught me that the English upper class are sent to school to be taught to be confident, whereas in Glasgow you're born confident. I've always thought that pretty much summed me up. Born confident.

I think my dad has helped me tremendously.

One time when I was nine or ten years old, I came home from school...and my dad said to me, 'Well, Ralph, what did you learn in school today? Did you learn how to believe or did you learn how to think?' So, I'm saying to myself, 'What's the difference between the two?'.

My dad wanted to name me after Rainier Maria Rilke, the poet.

I'm fine," [her dad] said gently. "Back on the horse, Cath.' 'What's the horse?' she sighed, watching him pull on a South High hoodie. 'Jogging? Working too much?' 'Living,' he said, a little too loud. 'Life's the horse.

We're going to listen music in my room.' 'Fine,' his dad said from underneath the sink. 'Just don't get anybody pregnant.

My mum and dad have always enjoyed life, and it's something that's been instilled in me. I wake up in a good mood most mornings.

My dad's one of the funniest men in the world. I grew up with him making me laugh so much I'd beg him to stop.

I'll probably always be 'Timothy Spall's son' and it's something I'm proud of. Maybe one day as well as that, they'll say of Timothy Spall that 'He's Rafe Spall's dad'.

I never mind talking about my dad. I'm proud of who he is, and being his son is one of the things I'm most proud of. To be constantly compared to someone so brilliant, who happens to be your dad, is cool.

You hear terrible stories because there'll be a story about some terrible kid, but most of the kids I work with are terrific kids. They're poor, maybe their families are broken, so they're not coming home to a mom and dad and a nice dinner every night. But these kids are capable.

When I have children that go home and mom and dad are not home because they're working, they're trying to get food on the table, and they come home to an empty house and they go to sleep in an empty house, there is no way that child can compete against a child from the west side of Los Angeles who both parents went to Stanford. Well, good for them, God love them. That's not an equal playing field.

My dad was the force behind me early on. He was just infatuated with baseball. He was the one that basically taught me how to play the game. He gave a lot of his time working out with me, practicing and taking me to a lot of different games. It was hard work between both of us.

My sister and I said, Dad, are you doing to do anything about that? And he mentioned treatments other people sent him that he'd been working on. So we thought it would be kind of cool to give these guys a real script.

My dad is an unbelievable entrepreneur who balanced his life as a father and a president of two very successful companies.

Nice is good, but it's not enough. I want you back for real. I want to talk to you at lunch, instead of staring at you while you eat. I want to see the smile on your face and know I put it there. I want to hear your dad's voice get all low and pissed off, like it only does when I've stayed over too late.

Leave the door open," my dad said, the second most common warning in his arsenal. Right behind, "Nash, go home.

Dad, I can count the number of normal school days I've had this year on one hand.

Did he show himself?” Nash asked, and I glanced to my right to see him staring at my father, as fascinated as I was. My dad nodded. “He was an arrogant little demon.” “So what happened?” I asked. “I punched him.” For a moment, we stared at him in silence. “You punched the reaper?” I asked, and my hand fell from the strainer onto the edge of the sink. “Yeah.” He chuckled at the memory, and his grin brought out one of my own. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my father smile. “Broke his nose.

Hang on, Pa, don't reach for yer shotgun just yet," I said, grinning over the protective streak I found funny, when there wasn't actually anything to shelterme from. "We were just circlin' the wagons, not having an orgy." My dad suddenly looked like he might be sick. "Please don't ever say that word again." "Wagons?