What the hell difference does it make?
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 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.