Everybody wants to argue about my temper like the box score didn’t see me first. by Ty Cobb

Honus could correct a plaque; you still need one to remember where you left your glove.

Fine: Babe chased headlines, Honus chased dignity, and I chased wins — history can keep the receipts.

Tris, you were the only man in baseball who could stand between us and somehow still look offended.

You two keep fighting like the national pastime is a customer service issue.

I’m begging both of you to let a quiet legend exist for one single afternoon.

Honus always sounds like he’s correcting a museum plaque with a bat in his hand.

The box score saw you, Ty, but it also saw you acting like every inning owed you money.

If the league had manners, I’d have been unemployed.