There's something magical about a home run. It almost violates the space of the stadium. It's a game of the imagination in some ways. Baseball.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
It's a funny business. I kind of compare it to baseball. I'm always looking for a home run.
When you're in the middle of a pennant race, you can't go up there thinking about home runs.
The typical baseball play is a pitcher throwing a ball and the batter not swinging at it, while the other players watch. Even a home run, the sport's defining big blast, is only metaphorically exciting; a fly ball that leaves the yard changes the score but may offer no more compelling view than an outfielder staring up.
Baseball is more than a game. It's like life played out on a field.
If you're not in the game, you can't hit a home run.
When McGwire started the home run mania, attendance came back. The owners understood that the sudden spike in homers wasn't accidental. All baseball knew it. But baseball is run on money, and home runs meant money. Baseball turned a blind eye.
When I hit a home run I usually didn't care where it went. So long as it was a home run was all that mattered.
The thing I like about baseball is that it's one-on-one. You stand up there alone, and if you make a mistake, it's your mistake. If you hit a home run, it's your home run.
I enjoy sports movies that don't sugarcoat. One thing that irritates me about sports movies is that they're like, 'The magic of the ball,' and 'The magic of the stadium.' It ain't that magical. When you get hit coming across the middle at 25 miles per hour, the magic's over.
I don't try to hit home runs. I just try to meet the ball and get base hits.