Which active athletes, coaches or owners would make the saddest retirement in sports?
Could anyone give me help on where to start new paragraphs in this piece of text The phone rings. It’s an internal call. That means only one thing. My boss wants to see me. Begrudgingly, I pick up the receiver. A deep booming voice appears on the other end. “Nick, can you come in to my office now.” My reply was short. “Yes Mr Fitzgerald, right away.” Now I understood why I hated this little swine. He had no people skills whatsoever. His mannerisms annoyed not just me, but everyone in the building. He was the ultimate anti–Christ. Anyone who considers George Steinbrenner to be their hero can’t be too good on issues of fairness. Sadly for me, he was the only person, who could authorise my salary every month, so I guess, as much as it pains me to do so, I have to bow down to him. Like a sloth, I approach his office, tap-tap-tap on the door and wait for the beckoning call. For what feels like an eternity passes by, and still I wait. Come in Nick. As I’m invited to sit down, Fitzgerald sits
