Sometimes I think if I had the same body and the same natural ability and someone else's brain, who knows how good a player I might have been.

As far as he knew, I was dying.

All the ballparks and the big crowds have a certain mystique. You feel attached, permanently wedded to the sounds that ring out, to the fans chanting your name, even when there are only four or five thousand in the stands on a Wednesday afternoon.

When I'm hitting, I'd play for nothing. When I'm not, any kind of money I receive makes me feel as if I'm stealing.

Today's Little Leaguers, and there are millions of them each year, pick up how to hit and throw and field just by watching games on TV. By the time they're out of high school, the good ones are almost ready to play professional ball.

I never understood how someone who was dying could say he was the luckiest man in the world, but now I understand.

My dad taught me to switch-hit. He and my grandfather, who was left-handed, pitched to me every day after school in the back yard. I batted lefty against my dad and righty against my granddad.