|Shortstop / Second baseman|
November 11, 1891|
|Died: January 6, 1954
Woodside, Queens, New York
I've lost a lot of teeth and square yards of hide. But I've never lost my self-respect, and I've kept what I find in few men of my age – my enthusiasm.
Nobody gets any fun out of baseball any more. I guess a kid's crazy not to be serious about it when he's drawing down $20,000 or $30,000 a year, and any smart-aleck gag you try may be your last. But what's life without a laugh?
I've spent more time in hospitals than some fellows ever spend in church.
For a quarter of a century, I've been playing baseball for pay. It has been pretty good pay, most of the time. The work has been hard, but what of it? It's been risky. I've broken both my legs. I've sprained everything I've got between my ankles and my disposition. I've dislocated my joints and fractured my pride.
The fall of 1912 my fielding was above the average, but my hitting was not so good. However, I was the talk of the town because of my peculiar way of catching a fly ball. They later named it the Vest-Pocket Catch.