I try not to break the rules but merely to test their elasticity.

It never ceases to amaze me how many of baseball’s wounds are self-inflicted.

People identify with the swashbuckling individuals, not polite little men who field their position well. Sir Galahad had a big following – but I’ll bet Lancelot had more.

I was in the game for love. After all, where else can an old-timer with one leg, who can’t hear or see, live like a king while doing the only thing I wanted to do?

I believe in God, but I’m not too clear on the other details.

When the Supreme Court says baseball isn’t run like a business, everybody jumps up and down with joy. When I say the same thing, everybody throws pointy objects at me.

Hating the Yankees isn’t part of my act. It is one of those exquisite times when life and art are in perfect conjunction.

Baseball is a boy’s game that makes grown men cry.

Three strikes, you’re out. I don’t care if you hire Edward Bennett Williams to defend you; three strikes, you’re still out. Baseball is an island of stability in an unstable world.

I don’t mind the high price of stardom. I just don’t like the high price of mediocrity.