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A damned good poet and a fair critic; but he can kiss my ass as a man and he never hit a ball out of the infield in his life.

Ernest Hemingway, on T.S. Eliot

What are we at the park for except to win? I’d trip my mother. I’d help her up, brush her off, tell her I’m sorry. But mother don’t make it to third.

Leo Durocher