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?

Walter Johnson's fastball looked about the size of a watermelon seed and it hissed at you as it passed.

When I began playing the game, baseball was about as gentlemanly as a kick in the crotch.

I may have been fierce, but never low or underhand.

The base paths belonged to me, the runner. The rules gave me the right. I always went into a bag full speed, feet first. I had sharp spikes on my shoes. If the baseman stood where he had no business to be and got hurt, that was his fault.

The longer I live, the longer I realize that batting is more a mental matter than it is physical. The ability to grasp the bat, swing at the proper time, take a proper stance; all these are elemental. Batting is rather a study in psychology, a sizing up of a pitcher and catcher and observing little details that are of immense importance. It's like the study of crime, the work of a detective as he picks up clues.

No man has ever been a perfect ballplayer. Stan Musial, however, is the closest to being perfect in the game today.