Baseball for me was instinctive, born within me, given to me as a gift from God.

I wasn’t out drinking and abusing my body. I simply loved to go out and dance.

I would always reserve a special place in my heart for Pittsburgh.

I loved to hit with men on base and with the game on the line.

It’s supposed to be fun, the man says ‘Play Ball’ not ‘Work Ball’ you know.

I’ve witnessed thousands of superior athletes try to becomes hitters and fail at it.

Human beings are pampered by the Lord. Their real tests don’t come until later in life.

I never did allow anything to keep me from my kids. They’re the most important part of my life.

Never was I booed.

You only have a few years to play this game and you can’t play it if you’re all tied up in knots.

To middle-class parents, the project team may have seemed unfit for children, but it was exactly what I needed.

People like us are afraid to leave ball. What else is there to do? When baseball has been your whole life, you can’t think about a future without it, so you hang on as long as you can.

I never search for a reason why – I have faith in the Lord’s purpose.

When we make a mistake, it becomes front-page news. We don’t need any reporter telling us how badly we played.

The bat is gone, but the smile remains.

To me, baseball has always been a reflection of life. Like life, it adjusts. It survives everything.

A World Series trophy is a wonderful thing to behold.

Never had I had so many friends and so much fun as I did in the projects.

I owe a large part of my success to Joe Brown, who helped me both as a player and a person.

Judgment traps you within the limitations of your comparisons. It inhibits freedom.

Playing baseball was my dream, and no amount of money could sway my opinion.

My first job after my retirement from baseball was as a narrator for the Eastman Philharmonica.

Unfortunately, inner feelings and potential are often stunted by our parents, relatives or peers.

If a reporter doesn’t like the person he’s writing about, it shows up in his article.

I was bred as an outcast, part Negro and part Seminole, in my early years raised as an Indian.

I was always a self-proclaimed poor slider.

Vietnam helped me realize who the true heroes really are in this world. It’s not the home-run hitters.

I always said that when it was time to retire, I would know it, and I would just tip my hat to the crowds.

I love September, especially when we’re in it.

We devote our entire lives to becoming good ball players. We take batting practice until our hands bleed.

I’ve always been a slave to my heart.

Love soothes wounds, while hatred and violence deepen them.

I don’t really feel that I deserve all my applause.

Helping someone is what life is all about.

Simple pleasures were all the pleasures that I knew as a child.

I was the most powerful left-handed hitter in the Alameda area.

I flailed my arm in a throwing motion before I could even walk.

Oakland revolved around Forbes Field. Nothing in the city could match that atmosphere.

Baseball for me was instinctive, born within me, given to me as a gift from God.

That’s where the future lies, in the youth of today.

We all wore a 21 patch that one season as a silent tribute to our deceased teammate Roberto.

To be successful, one must take chances.

I’m proud of the fact that I’m the only player to hit a ball completely out of Dodger Stadium.

I’m a God-fearing man who worships with my heart and with my life.

I eventually became proud of my strikeouts, because each one represented another learning experience.

There’s nothing I value more than the closeness of friends and family, a smile as I pass someone on the street.

I found myself in a race with Mother Nature to play as much baseball as I could before she forced me to stop.

I gave out stars whenever an appropriate situation presented itself.

I see a lot of people who love their jobs. I see some garbage collectors smiling as they go about their work.

The Giants were a good team, but our biggest enemy was said to be Candlestick Park.

Life is one big transition.

Reporters often forget that athletes are human beings.

I’m always amazed when a pitcher becomes angry at a hitter for hitting a home run off him. When I strike out, I don’t get angry at the pitcher, I get angry at myself. I would think that if a pitcher threw up a home run ball, he should be angry at himself.

They give you a round bat and they throw you a round ball and they tell you to hit it square.