“Don’t drink in the hotel bar, that’s where I do my drinking.”

Been in this game one-hundred years, but I see new ways to lose ’em I never knew existed before.

The Yankees don’t pay me to win every day, just two out of three.

They told me my services were no longer desired because they wanted to put in a youth program as an advance way of keeping the club going. I’ll never make the mistake of being seventy again.

I came in here and a fella asked me to have a drink. I said I don’t drink. Then another fella said hear you and Joe DiMaggio aren’t speaking and I said I’ll take that drink.

The Mets have shown me more ways to lose than I even knew existed.

The trouble is not that players have sex the night before a game. It’s that they stay out all night looking for it.

Ability is the art of getting credit for all the home runs somebody else hits.

When you are younger you get blamed for crimes you never committed and when you’re older you begin to get credit for virtues you never possessed. It evens itself out.

I’ve tried to give a dollar and 25 cents in work for every dollar paid me.

I don’t know if he throws a spitball but he sure spits on the ball.

If I’ve got a good pinch-hitter, I hate to have him stay on the bench with men on the bases in an early inning. He may end the game right there.

Finding good players is easy. Getting them to play as a team is another story.

Never make predictions, especially about the future.

No baseball pitcher would be worth a darn without a catcher who could handle the hot fastball.

Everybody line up alphabetically according to your height.

I was not successful as a ball player, as it was a game of skill.

People only get really interesting when they start to rattle the bars of their cages.

Well, folks. That’s the greatest open in the history of television — bar none!

Married life is an existence with bars around it.

The unsaid message of that endless rack of juniors’ pushup bras?

Tattooed men who are not behind bars are either latent criminals or degenerate aristocrats.

Finding an etiolated Henry James slumped at the bar in a haze of indecision, and shooting him dead.

If the history of the American sentence were a John Ford movie, its second act would conclude with the young Ernest Hemingway walking into a saloon

For my bar mitzvah, I gave out a mix tape of ’90s grunge – if you got it now, you would think it was the ‘Singles’ soundtrack.