Give me some scratching, diving, hungry ballplayers who come to kill you.
There are only five things you can do in baseball – run, throw, catch, hit and hit with power.
I made a game effort to argue but two things were against me: the umpires and the rules.
Show me a good sportsman and I’ll show you a player I’m looking to trade.
What are we at the park for except to win? I’d trip my mother. I’d help her up, brusher her off, tell her I’m sorry. But mother don’t make it to third.
Win any way as long as you can get away with it. Nice guys finish last.
In the olden days, the umpire didn’t have to take any courses in mind reading. The pitcher told you he was going to throw at you.
Buy a steak for a player on another club after the game, but don’t even speak to him on the field. Get out there and beat them to death.
To some it’s a six-pack, to me it’s a “support group”. Salvation in a can!
If you don’t win, you’re going to be fired. If you do win, you’ve only put off the day you’re going to be fired.
As long as I’ve got one chance to beat you I’m going to take it.
Stick a fork in him. He’s done.
It’s possible to spend money anywhere in the world if you put your mind to it, something I proved conclusively by running up huge debts in Cincinnati.
When you’re in professional sports, winning is the only thing that matters.
In order to become a big-league manager you have to be in the right place at the right time. That’s rule number one.
There is only one way to pitch to Musial – under the plate.
What are we out at the park for except to win?
Some guys are admired for coming to play, as the saying goes. I prefer those who come to kill.
Branch Rickey once said of me that I was a man with an infinite capacity for immediately making a bad thing worse.
Ballplayers are a superstitious breed, nobody more than I, and while you are winning you’d murder anybody who tried to change your sweatshirt, let alone your uniform.
The nice guys are all over there, in seventh place.