Paris ain’t much of a town.
Baseball changes through the years. It gets milder.
I won’t be happy until we have every boy in America between the ages of six and sixteen wearing a glove and swinging a bat.
Cobb is a prick. But he sure can hit. God Almighty, that man can hit.
As soon as I got out there I felt a strange relationship with the pitcher’s mound. It was as if I’d been born out there. Pitching just felt like the most natural thing in the world. Striking out batters was easy.
Don’t ever forget two things I’m going to tell you. One, don’t believe everything that’s written about you. Two, don’t pick up too many checks.
How about a little noise. How do you expect a man to putt?
Gee, its lonesome in the outfield. It’s hard to keep awake with nothing to do.
If I’d just tried for them dinky singles I could’ve batted around .600.
If it wasn’t for baseball, I’d be in either the penitentiary or the cemetery.
Reading isn’t good for a ballplayer. Not good for his eyes. If my eyes went bad even a little bit I couldn’t hit home runs. So I gave up reading.
I had only one superstition. I made sure to touch all the bases when I hit a home run.
Let me show you how it’s done… Loser!
Who is richer? The man who is seen, but cannot see? Or the man who is not being seen, but can see?
All I can tell them is pick a good one and sock it. I get back to the dugout and they ask me what it was I hit and I tell them I don’t know except it looked good.