I don't think President Bush is doing anything at all about Aids. In fact, I'm not sure he even knows how to spell Aids.
President Bush and his administration have tried to pull the wool over our eyes and distract the public from this possibly illegal domestic spying scandal.
The interesting thing is that it seems like George W. Bush would have been happy being the president of anything. He could have been president of Major League Baseball.
A manager's job is simple. For one hundred sixty-two games you try not to screw up all that smart stuff your organization did last December.
Nobody likes to hear it, because it's dull, but the reason you win or lose is darn near always the same - pitching.
Ball parks are smaller and baseballs are livelier. They've practically got pitchers wearing straitjackets. Bah! They still allow the knuckleball, and that is three times as hard to control.
I'd like President Bush to think maybe there's another way to think, that maybe Kissinger was wrong when he says we had to go in there because he was wrong about Vietnam.
I don't want to talk in terms of miracles. I think this is a very serious situation. But I do want to talk in terms of Bush becoming a man of the hour, and I think this is way to do it.
I'd like President Bush to get a gun in his hands. I'll go with him. I can't think of anything better than to die in place 's just beginning their lives.
One of the most important post-9/11 efforts made to counter terrorism and the spread of weapons of mass destruction is President Bush's Proliferation Security Initiative (PSI).
It's no surprise that the Bush administration's bullying swagger and blithe ignorance have caused much of the Muslim world to hold the U.S. in rock-bottom regard.
You fool around with different pitches playing catch, but it's not the same when you've got to face some guy with a bat in his hand.
I've been on teams that lost a hundred games in a season. I've been on teams that had a shot to make the playoffs and fizzled out at the end.
It all comes down to when spring training comes. Do you want to go or don't you? If you want to go, you go.
Every Autumn now my thoughts return to snow. Snow is something I identify myself with. Like my father, I am a snow person.
But I want you to know that what I'm doing here I'm doing as a ballplayer, a major league ballplayer.
Customary though it may be to write about that institutionalized pastime as though it existed apart from the general environment, my story does not lend itself to such treatment.
Whatever I contributed to the unique morale of the Cardinals was part of this growth, and so, of course, was my decision to have it out in public with the owners of organized baseball.
I am pleased God made my skin black. I only wish He had to made it thicker.
No man in America ever strove more, and more successfully first to bring about a Congress in 1765, and then to support it ever afterwards than myself.
I worked on a farm. Played ball and loafed along the fishing and swimming holes of the White River, and my boyhood was not a lot different from that of other youngsters.
