You just can’t beat the person who never gives up.

Yesterday’s home runs don’t win today’s games.

Never let the fear of striking out get in your way.

Baseball was, is and always will be to me the best game in the world.

Who is richer? The man who is seen, but cannot see? Or the man who is not being seen, but can see?

If I’d just tried for them dinky singles I could’ve batted around .600.

Gee, its lonesome in the outfield. It’s hard to keep awake with nothing to do.

All ballplayers should quit when it starts to feel as if all the baselines run uphill.

I won’t be happy until we have every boy in America between the ages of six and sixteen wearing a glove and swinging a bat.

Baseball changes through the years. It gets milder.

Reading isn’t good for a ballplayer. Not good for his eyes. If my eyes went bad even a little bit I couldn’t hit home runs. So I gave up reading.

Cobb is a prick. But he sure can hit. God Almighty, that man can hit.

Paris ain’t much of a town.

As soon as I got out there I felt a strange relationship with the pitcher’s mound. It was as if I’d been born out there. Pitching just felt like the most natural thing in the world. Striking out batters was easy.

The way a team plays as a whole determines its success. You may have the greatest bunch of individual stars in the world, but if they don’t play together, the club won’t be worth a dime.

Every strike brings me closer to the next home run.

Let me show you how it’s done… Loser!

I learned early to drink beer, wine and whiskey. And I think I was about 5 when I first chewed tobacco.

I had only one superstition. I made sure to touch all the bases when I hit a home run.

I’ll promise to go easier on drinking and to get to bed earlier, but not for you, fifty thousand dollars, or two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars will I give up women. They’re too much fun.

Don’t ever forget two things I’m going to tell you. One, don’t believe everything that’s written about you. Two, don’t pick up too many checks.

If it wasn’t for baseball, I’d be in either the penitentiary or the cemetery.

All I can tell them is pick a good one and sock it. I get back to the dugout and they ask me what it was I hit and I tell them I don’t know except it looked good.

I didn’t mean to hit the umpire with the dirt, but I did mean to hit that bastard in the stands.

How about a little noise. How do you expect a man to putt?