When I hit a home run I usually didn't care where it went. So long as it was a home run was all that mattered.

I don't care who you are, you hear those boos.

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.

It was all I lived for, to play baseball.

Thank God for baseball.

I wanted to throw my glass at the TV.

I hated to bat against Drysdale. After he hit you he'd come around, look at the bruise on your arm and say, 'Do you want me to sign it?'