When I wasn't lying awake thinking and planning and fighting over that furious pennant race, I was dreaming restless dreams about it.
I threw so hard I thought my arm would fly right off my body.
But wherever I was I played baseball. That's all I lived for. When I sat up on the front seat of that covered wagon next to my father, I was wearing a baseball glove. That showed anybody who was interested where I wanted to go.
The smaller the town the more important the ball club was. But if you beat a bigger town they'd practically hand you the key to the city. Any if you lost a game by making an error in the ninth or something like that, well, the best thing to do was just pack your grip and hit the road, because they'd never let you forget it.
Baseball is all I ever wanted. I could eat, sleep, and dream baseball.
I threw so hard (after striking out Art Fletcher & Doc Crandall in the 9th inning of Game 1 of the 1912 World Series) I thought my arm would fly right off my body.
