Gee, its lonesome in the outfield. It’s hard to keep awake with nothing to do.
Every strike brings me closer to the next home run.
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.
Sometimes when I reflect on all the beer I drink, I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn’t drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. I think, ‘It is better to drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver.