Natural grass is a wonderful thing for little bugs and sinkerball pitchers.

I became a better pitcher when I found a delivery in my flaw.

Reggie Jackson hit one off me that's still burrowing its way to Los Angeles.

Strikes (1981) are real life. It took up seven weeks of real time. That's a fifth of a pregnancy.

Someone told me just recently that poets are eulogists. It's their job, to eulogize. I didn't know that, but it makes sense. Because in almost every poem of mine there is a loss.

Coming into a game in the eighth or ninth inning is like parachuting behind enemy lines. And sometimes the chute doesn't open. You have to live with that. It's an occupational hazard.

When I came over here (the National League), I always heard it was a stronger league, with amphetamines all over the clubhouse, but all I found was Michelob Dry.