I'd play for half my salary if I could hit in this dump (Wrigley Field) all the time.
I learned early to drink beer, wine and whiskey. And I think I was about 5 when I first chewed tobacco.
Baseball changes through the years. It gets milder.
I'm only going one way.
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.
I hear the cheers when they roared and the jeers when they echoed.
I only have one superstition: I make sure to touch all the bases when I hit a home run.
Gee, its lonesome in the outfield. It's hard to keep awake with nothing to do.
The only real game, I think, in the world is baseball.
I didn't mean to hit the umpire with the dirt, but I did mean to hit that bastard in the stands.
They started something here, and the kids are keeping the ball rolling.
(Ty) Cobb is a prick. But he sure can hit. God Almighty, that man can hit.
Paris ain't much of a town.
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!
To my sick little pal. I will try to knock you another homer, maybe two today.
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.
I hit an inside-the-park home run! I beat it out! Can you believe that?
Let me show you how it's done... Loser!
What the hell difference does it make?
How about a little noise. How do you expect a man to putt?
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've never heard a crowd boo a homer, but I've heard plenty of boos after a strikeout.
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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