Roger Kahn Quotes

One thing a writer has, if he is fortunate, and I have been fortunate, is a partnership with the years.

It was a fine thing to be a newspaperman and I very much wanted to be a good one.

The time seems simpler than today, but mostly because the past always seems simpler when its wars are done.

I never heard a thrown ball make that sound before. The ball seemed to accelerate as it came close; an accelerating, impossibly fast pitch that made the noises of hornets and snakes.

At a point of life when one is through with boyhood, but has not yet discovered how to be a man, it was my fortune to travel with the most marvelously appealing of teams.

That morning began with wind and hairy clouds. It was late March and the day rose brisk and uncertain, with gusts suggesting January and flashes of sun promising June. In every way, a season of change had come.

At carefree times in early boyhood I chose to believe that life was a kind of ball game, but with a mix of years and perception I learned better.

The world is never again as it was before anyone you love has ever died; never so innocent, never so fixed, never so gentle, never so pliant to your will. But these are afterthoughts. Generations vie and the young recover swiftly, or believe they do.

Surely these fine athletes, those boys of summer, have found their measure of ruin.

Defeat, particularly dramatic defeat, confirms our worst impression of ourselves.

He bore the burden of a pioneer and the weight made him strong. If one can be certain of anything in baseball, it is that we shall not look upon his like again.

What did it matter, Babe Ruth or Jersey Joe Stripp? If vector analysis was beyond me, I could still watch a ball game.

I wonder if anyone always knows-you, me, Jackie Robinson, even Robert Frost-that we will cross to Safety. Or is it rather that when we are There, we think we always knew?

Nouns and verbs carry writing.

You may glory in a team triumphant, but you fall in love with a team in defeat. Losing after great striving is the story of man, who was born to sorrow, whose sweetest songs tell of saddest thought, and who, if he is a hero, does nothing in life as becomingly as leaving it.