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?

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

This is a game to be savored, not gulped. There's time to discuss everything between pitches or between innings.

If there is any justice in this world, to be a White Sox fan frees a man from any other form of penance.

What can I do, I asked myself, that is so spectacular that no one will be able to say he had seen it before? The answer was perfectly obvious. I would send a midget up to bat.

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

Though it is a team game by definition, it is actually a series of loosely connected individual efforts.