Aw, everybody knows that game, the day I hit the homer off ole Charlie Root there in Wrigley Field, the day October first, the third game of that thirty-two World Series. But right now I want to settle all arguments. I didn't exactly point to any spot, like the flagpole. Anyway, I didn't mean to, I just sorta waved at the whole fence, but that was foolish enough. All I wanted to do was give that thing a ride... outta the park... anywhere.
Gee, its lonesome in the outfield. It's hard to keep awake with nothing to do.
I'd play for half my salary if I could hit in this dump (Wrigley Field) all the time.
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.
Paris ain't much of a town.
The termites have got me.
I'm only going one way.
Baseball changes through the years. It gets milder.
(Ty) Cobb is a prick. But he sure can hit. God Almighty, that man can hit.
I only have one superstition: I make sure to touch all the bases when I hit a home run.
What the hell difference does it make?
I didn't mean to hit the umpire with the dirt, but I did mean to hit that bastard in the stands.
I hear the cheers when they roared and the jeers when they echoed.
They started something here, and the kids are keeping the ball rolling.
I don't give a damn about any actors. What good will John Barrymore do you with the bases loaded and two down in a tight ball game. Either I get the money (more than Barrymore), or I don't play!
How about a little noise. How do you expect a man to putt?
The curve and the fast one are important; the change of pace and the other trick deliveries are great but they're not worth a plugged nickel unless you have control to go along with them. And by control I don't mean the ability to put the ball over the plate somewhere between the shoulders and knees. I mean the ability to hit a three-inch target nine times out of ten, the sort of control that lets you put the ball in the exact spot you want it, and to play a corner to the split fraction of an inch.
To my sick little pal. I will try to knock you another homer, maybe two today.
Let me show you how it's done... Loser!
I hit an inside-the-park home run! I beat it out! Can you believe that?
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.
What the hell has (Herbert) Hoover got to do with it? Anyway, I had a better year than he did.
Hotter 'n hell, ain't it, Prez?
What the hell has Hoover got to do with it? Besides, I had a better year than he did.
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