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

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.

Most pitchers fear losing their fastball and, since I don't have one, the only thing I have to fear is fear itself.

The future is much like the present, only longer.

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

A manager uses a relief pitcher like a six shooter, he fires until it's empty then takes the gun and throws it at the villain.