Dizzy Dean Quotes

I reached and grabbed ahold of the garden rake that was leaned up against the tree, when suddenly I felt my heart begin to race and I began to feel dizzy as my visual field became black. That is the last thing I recall before awakening to find myself lying on the ground in the front yard, with the handle of the rake resting on my chest.

It did occur to me that the effect of good literature may be as dizzying as that of alcohol.

It ain't braggin if you can back it up...

Of course, I would never have succeeded with this scheme if I hadn't made that A in the first place. And if my Class Dean had known how scared and depressed I was, and how I seriously contemplated desperate remedies such as getting a doctor's certificate that I was unfit to study chemistry, the formulas made me dizzy and so on, I'm sure she wouldn't have listened to me for a minute, but would have made me take the course regardless.

Setting aside the issues of homicide and suicide for the time being, let us examine what it means to be a true fan. My harried therapist once asked if I could delineate my specific philosophy in a concise and economical fashion, if only for the edification of the vulgar. Hey, no problem, Doc. I just happen to have a tattered old piece of paper in my wallet setting forth the fan canon; it had been given to me as a boy by a rakish carny who claimed to have once been Dizzy Dean’s grocery boy. It consisted of the following items: Never switch allegiances. Show some respect. Visit the shrines. Never give up. Never give in. Never leave early. Neither a front-runner not a Johnny-come-lately be. Accept no substitutes. Wait until next year. Never turn down tickets to see Jordan.

To me, the mark of a truly great sporting venue has never been what it sounds like or how it feels when the stands are packed. That's easy. Even the most generic cookie-cutter stadium or arena feels electric when the game is big, the lights are on, and the crowd is amped. The real measure of a ballpark's character is how the place feels when it's empty. When the only noises to be heard are produced by the occasional breeze that slips through the concourse. It rattles the ropes on the empty center-field flagpoles. It pushes a stray plastic cup around beneath the feet of the box seats. And if you listen closely enough, that wind carries on it the whispers of the ghosts. The athletes who played between the lines, their toes in the dirt where only those who compete are allowed to roam. During my career in sports media, I've heard their voices at Indianapolis Motor Speedway and Darlington Raceway. I've heard them at Lambeau Field and the Rose Bowl. I've heard them at old Boston Garden and Augusta National. And the morning of Thursday, March 3, 1994, I heard them at McCormick Field. Cobb, Gehrig, Dizzy Dean, Hank Greenberg, Jackie Robinson, Roy Campanella, Willie Stargell. From the Hall of Famers to a thousand minor leaguers whose names no one remembers. I swear, they were all there that morning to welcome us into the little mountain ballpark that they'd helped build.