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.
Every strike brings me closer to the next home run.
Cobb is a prick. But he sure can hit. God Almighty, that man can hit.
How about a little noise. How do you expect a man to putt?
Paris ain’t much of a town.
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.
The only real game, I think, in the world is baseball.
I hear the cheers when they roared and the jeers when they echoed.
I’ve never heard a crowd boo a homer, but I’ve heard plenty of boos after a strikeout.
You know this baseball game of ours comes up from the youth – that means the boys. And after you’ve been a boy, and grow up to know how to play ball, then you come to the boys you see representing themselves today in our national pastime.
I know, but I had a better year than Hoover.
I’d give a year of my life if I could hit a homerun on opening day of this great new park.
To my sick little pal. I will try to knock you another homer, maybe two today.
Hotter ’n hell, ain’t it, Prez?
I hit an inside-the-park home run! I beat it out! Can you believe that?
Read about your case of amnesia. Must be a new brand.
They started something here, and the kids are keeping the ball rolling.
What the hell difference does it make?
What the hell has Hoover got to do with it? Besides, I had a better year than he did.
The termites have got me.
That last one sounded kinda high to me.