Sure, women sportswriters look when they’re in the clubhouse. Read their stories. How else do you explain a capital letter in the middle of a word?
I led the league in go get ’em next time.
I used to soak my mitts in a bucket of water for about two days. Then I’d put a couple of baseballs in the pocket and wrap it up with a rubber band. Today you don’t have to do that, because catchers’ mitts are more like first baseman’s gloves.
I make fun of situations and try and find the humor in things, but it’s never at the expense of the other guy.
I had been playing for a while, and I asked Louisville Slugger to send me a dozen flame treated bats. But when I got it, I realized they had sent me a box of ashes.
They have Easter egg hunts in Philadelphia, and if the kids don’t find the eggs, they get booed.
When I played baseball I got death threats all the time–from my mother.
In 1962 I was named Minor League Player of the Year. It was my second season in the bigs.
Let’s face it. Umpiring is not an easy or happy way to make a living. In the abuse they suffer, and the pay they get for it, you see an imbalance that can only be explained by their need to stay close to a game they can’t resist.
We were on for six years. We were in syndication for a while. It had its run. I still see the people from ‘Mr. Belvedere,’ too. We stay in touch.
After getting out of the service and going into baseball I never wanted to do anything else.
I would order a dozen bats and there were times they’d come back with handles at each end.