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

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?

Suffering is overated.

The season starts too early and finishes too late and there are too many games in between.

The Falstaff people, romantics all, went for it. They were so anxious to find out what I was going to do that they could hardly bear to wait out the two weeks. I was rather anxious to find out what I was going to do, too.

I don't break the rules. I merely test their elasticity.

How can you be a sage if you're pretty? You can't get your wizard papers without wrinkles.