Mantle played ball almost under a shroud of depression, because he always thought he was going to die an early death. But Mays probably thinks he's g… - Arnold Hano

He always threw to the right base. We say that about most outfielders. Ruth always threw to the right base. DiMaggio always threw to the right base. The others maybe did, maybe didn’t. Mays most of the time threw to the right base, but Ruth always threw to the right base.

The huge church is burrowed into ancient mountains. By elevator you rise up through the mountain to the foot of a giant cross that soars nearly 500 feet into an intense blue sky, its arms spreading 300 feet. The four Evangelists who crouched at the base are 28 feet high, carved out of stone. All Spain comes to the Valley of the Fallen for its moment of meditation. It is a wondrous work, but it never lets you forget that it marks one of man's most ghastly works—war. But war—like all pain—is soon forgotten. New generations are born. And in you see families together, voluble, chattering, touching each other, husbands, wives, children. They smile at each other, and at you. And you smile back. For that is the true Madrid. It embraces you. It loves you. Soon, you love it back.

You have seen bigger horses than his thirteen and a half, perhaps fourteen hands, his nine hundred pounds. You have seen handsomer profiles than this Roman nose, slightly convex. Burrs cling to his long sweeping tail. His coat is dark and unglossed. Yet look again, while he is still, for he will not be still long. Sense the vitality in those muscles, trembling beneath the skin; see the pride in that high head, hear the haughty command to his voice. For this is a wild horse, my friend. Once he claimed the western range. Then they took his range away from him. But nothing, no one claims him. He feels the wind and the air with his nose, with his ears, with his very soul, and what he feels is good. He tosses his head, once, quickly, and behind him his harem of six mares trot up to join him, and behind them, a yearling colt, a filly and two stork-legged foals. Coats dusty and chewed, tails spiked with bits of the desert, sage and nettle and leftover pine needles from winter climbs down from timberland. The Barb-nosed stallion led his family down to the waterhole. Not Barb from barbed wire, though perhaps the chewed skin was from barbed wire, but Barb from the Spanish horses from which he descended, brought to the New World over four hundred years ago, from the Barbary states of North Africa, Tunisia, Morocco, Algeria, Fez, Tripoli. Indians stole them from the Spaniards; the Barbs stole themselves free from the Indians. Running wild, a few still run free.