I'm coming down on the next pitch, Krauthead.
The crowd makes the ballgame.
The way those clubs shift against Ted Williams, I can't understand how he can be so stupid not to accept the challenge to him and hit to left field.
Just speed, raw speed, blinding speed, too much speed.
Walter Johnson's fastball looked about the size of a watermelon seed and it hissed at you as it passed.
Every man in the game, from the minors on up, is not only fighting against the other side, but he's trying to hold onto his own job against those on his own bench who'd love to take it away. Why deny this? Why minimize it? Why not boldly admit it?