Someone told me just recently that poets are eulogists. It’s their job, to eulogize. I didn’t know that, but it makes sense. Because in almost every poem of mine there is a loss.

Most pitchers fear losing their fastball and, since I don’t have one, the only thing I have to fear is fear itself.

Coming into a game in the eighth or ninth inning is like parachuting behind enemy lines. And sometimes the chute doesn’t open. You have to live with that. It’s an occupational hazard.

A manager uses a relief pitcher like a six shooter, he fires until it’s empty then takes the gun and throws it at the villain.

Reggie Jackson hit one off me that’s still burrowing its way to Los Angeles.

It helps to be stupid if you’re a relief pitcher. Relievers had to get into a zone of their own. I just hope I’m stupid enough.

The best thing about baseball is there’s no homework.

It’s easy to enjoy your job and enjoy other people when things are going good. When you’re faced with adversity is when the character of men is measured. There’s a Mennonite proverb, ‘Man, like a tree, is measured best when cut down.’

His contract has options through the year 2020 or until the last Rocky movie is made.

I want to thank all the pitchers who couldn't go nine innings, and manager Dick Howser who wouldn't let them go.