When I came to Detroit I was just a mild-mannered Sunday-school boy.
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.
Don't come home a failure.
A ball bat is a wondrous weapon.
To get along with me, don't increase my tension.
I never could stand losing. Second place didn't interest me. I had a fire in my belly.