Don't Come Home A Failure.

When I Began Playing The Game, Baseball Was About As Gentlemanly As A Kick In The Crotch.

The Base Paths Belonged To Me, The Runner. The Rules Gave Me The Right. I Always Went Into A Bag Full Speed, Feet First. I Had Sharp Spikes On My Shoes. If The Baseman Stood Where He Had No Business To Be And Got Hurt, That Was His Fault.

Every Man In The Game, From The Minors On Up, Is Not Only Fighting Against The Other Side, But He's Trying To Hold Onto His Own Job Against Those On His Own Bench Who'd Love To Take It Away. Why Deny This? Why Minimize It? Why Not Boldly Admit It?

Just Speed, Raw Speed, Blinding Speed, Too Much Speed.

I Had To Fight All My Life To Survive. They Were All Against Me, But I Beat The Bastards And Left Them In The Ditch.