People From Oklahoma

"And he had to face something else, too, his own paralyzing fear of being hit in the scrimmages. The whole squad had seen it. There was no way a boy could hide cowardice in football."

"A newspaper story in the Daily Oklahoman of July 12, 1969, aroused my interest. It told about two boys, Gary and Larry Alexander, aged thirteen and eleven, who became foster parents to a family of baby bluejays after a stone from Larry's slingshot had accidentally slain the mother. Reporter Jack Jones wrote it. Gary and Larry lived in Dallas, Texas, but the incident occurred at Bethany, Oklahoma, where the boys were visiting their grandmother, Mrs. Ruth Lucille Cook. I located the Alexander brothers by long-distance telephone at Bethany. I talked to Gary, the elder. He told me in detail of the boys' heroic struggle to keep the young birds alive, although all had died within a few days of their adoption. I decided to write a book about it."

"Boys everywhere are quick to recognize and respect any kind of talent in each other, and one of Will Rogers' best talents was talking."

"Clem Rogers had not given up on his determination to have Will acquire an education. He still believed Will could get some good out of schooling if only a school could be found that would hold his interest. After a good deal of thought Clem decided on Kemper Military Academy at Boonville, Missouri. The school had a fine reputation and in those days many well-to-do ranchmen sent their sons there, not only for the academic training the school offered, but also that they might acquire poise, learn obedience, manliness and how to be orderly in personal appearance. There were the sons of many prominent families at Kemper when Will Rogers went there, among them Burton Mudge, son of the president of the Santa Fe railroad; Alden Nickerson, whose father was president of the Mexican and Central railway; Norris Beebee, son of a well-known Boston leather manufacturer; R. D. Williams, son of a judge of the Missouri Supreme Court, and many others. Will arrived at Kemper on January 13, 1897, wearing full cowboy regalia, a short Stetson hat with a braided horsehair cord, red bandana handkerchief around his neck, a richly colored vest and high-heeled red-top boots with noisy spurs. He must have looked strange to the Kemper boys, clad in their trim uniforms. One of the first boys Will saw was John Payne, also part Cherokee, whom he had met and known at Tahlequah when their fathers went there to the Cherokee Council, years before. "Why hello, John," Will drawled, beaming because he had found someone from home, "they got you here, too?" "Yes," laughed John, "I'm servin' time same as you.""

"Remember this, Benjamin, and it will keep you on an even keel. In this life the world changes. The good times always give way to the bad. But the bad times move again into the good. Learn to expect change, and to ride with it. When good times come, don't get too proud because good times won't stay around forever. And when the bad times come, don't get the mullygrubs, like you've got them now, because things will soon get better. So fight hard. Don't feel sorry for yourself. Stay brave. Jesus stayed brave with danger all around him."

"His full name was Terence F. Rafferty, and I guess the "F" stood for fiery because that's the kind of fellow he was. Fiery and speedy and tiny and tough. And emotional. When the coach wouldn't start him, his freckled face would go under a cloud and he'd start blinking, and big tears would come rolling out of his eyes until it would get so wet in our dressing room that everybody wished they had fins instead of feet. We called him Red. You couldn't have called him anything else."

"Despite an undeserved reputation for effeminacy, probably caused by its etiquette, tennis measures up to any sport in its demands upon skill, speed, stamina and gameness. The etiquette of tennis is more rigid than that of any other widely-played American sport. A tennis crowd sits dignified and sedately, applauding only at correct intervals and then with a pleasant patter of handclaps. The spectators do not raise parasols at matches, nor move around during actual play, nor boo players or officials. Tennis players always wear white clothing. In England, player and spectator conduct is even more conservative. While the English have a decided sense of humor, they will not tolerate comedy in tennis if it conflicts with the sport's conventions."

"Lee fitted the key into his pocket ring and looked around once at the pitifully small room. Well, he told himself, you walk the ice and hope she's solid all the way across."

"Red Rafferty was a rugged little eighth-grader who weighed only 114 pounds. But each pound was a fighting pound, as we soon found out. His parents had moved in from a ranch near Buffalo Springs, and you could see that Red had lived around horses. He even smelled like horses. He wore a big Western hat and a pair of fancy-stitched boots. His legs were bowed as a hoop. He would have been a starter on any school's rodeo team, I'll bet. But basketball was his love. He worshiped the sport. In fact, he took it so seriously that he had the weird notion that it was a disgrace not to start a game, and that's what this story is about too."

"Fritz Romberg relaxed his grip on the bridle reins and squinted into the sun. Beneath his blond hair that spiraled in tiny curls and ringlets, beads of sweat ran off his tan face and down inside his cotton shirt that smelled old and stale. A gentle, docile boy, he was small for his thirteen years, but strong, wiry, and not afraid of anyone."

"The Kemper authorities outfitted each cadet in beautiful gray-blue uniforms with braid down each side of the trouser legs and around the collars and sleeves. The caps were blue with heavy patent leather peaks and gold braid initials KS on the front. They had smart looking dress uniforms with "spike-tailed" coats and round brass buttons. They wore these uniforms to church and it was one of Will's favorite tricks, when a boy started to sit down in the pew in front of him, to kick his studded coat tails under him and then look innocently at the preacher as the uncomfortable cadet rose to readjust his coat tails and scanned the seats behind him for a guilty face."

"And that wasn't all. At six o'clock in the morning of the last day of March, a muffled buzzing cut insistently through the darkness at the Driskill home. Awakening, Lee raised his head. It was the telephone, and its strident summons, pealing at regular intervals, alarmed him with its possibility of accident or disaster. He walked barefoot into the living room to answer it. "Hello?" he answered sleepily. "Lee Driskill? This is Judge Rutherford. Do you and Mrs. Driskill still want to adopt a baby? There's one available at the Baptist Hospital in Seymour City. Third floor. Born yesterday. It's not a boy. Everybody wants a boy, and we're fresh out. This one's a girl. The adoption people say she's yours, right now, if you want her." Wild with excitement, Lee tried to swallow but couldn't. "You bet we want her, Judge. We'll dress quickly and jump in the car. It's only a hundred and fifteen miles. The road through this old shortgrass country is flat and easy." His hand shook as he hung up the telephone. Three years ago he would have insisted on a son. But not anymore. He hurried into the bedroom to waken Jean."

"Will's early years were much like those of other children in ranch houses or on farms. He rarely went to town because there were no towns near. Vinita, thirty miles east, was a straggling Indian village on the prairie, Old Claremore was a tiny cluster of stores on the stage route from Vinita to Albuquerque, and Tulsa was then only a switch. But Will was not interested in towns, and cared only for ranch life. There were so many fascinating things to do on his father's farm that the days were not long enough to get all of them done."

"Those were stirring times out on that wild frontier- rough, dangerous times in many ways. But to young Will Rogers, growing up on his father's range, that frontier was the garden spot of the world. He had a comfortable home, kind parents, jolly playmates, and the whole country-side for a playground. But above all, he was happy because he was learning to rope and ride, the two things he cared for most in all the world."

"Mary and Clem were the very soul of hospitality, and the Rogers house was seldom without visitors. It was Mary's custom to bring some family home from church with her for dinner each Sunday- and in those days when people came for dinner they stayed all day and often all night as well. Mary always fed them bountifully, kept them as long as they would stay, and when they departed, they did not go away empty-handed. Perhaps it was apples or peaches from the orchard, a basket of grapes, or a bit of Mary's own baking that her guests took home with them. But it was always something. Clem often invited neighbors to go fishing with him, and when they did, these neighbors would come the night before so that a good early start could be made. Whole families would go in wagons to Four Mile Creek, where the perch and bass were so thick that they would strike not only at the baited hook, but also at the colored cork on each line. The catch would always be taken back to the Rogers farm where a big fish dinner would be served. An atmosphere of such friendliness could not fail to leave its impress on the child, Will Rogers, and it implanted in him an open-hearted generosity that was one of his chief characteristics throughout his life."

"From his earliest childhood Will Rogers had strongly defined characteristics. He was by nature affectionate and fun-loving and, though he loved to tease and play pranks on his friends, there was no malice in him. Underneath his love of fun and his careless ways, there was a great sensitiveness which, in his early years at least, sometimes caused him unhappiness. But he was quick to forgive those who hurt him as he was to ask forgiveness when he himself was in the wrong, and this, as well as many other lovable traits, made Will Rogers a great favorite among his classmates at Willie Halsell."

"Just behind the school there was a one-hundred-and-sixty acre blue grass pasture, and Will and Charley and some of the other boys conceived the brilliant plan of leaving the gate of this pasture open, so that the strange cattle that ran at large might drift in to feet on the grass there. When they had lured the cattle into the pasture they would close the gate and ride and rope to their heart's content. This was an exciting game and they might have gone on with it indefinitely, but one day at round-up time, "Doc" Frazier missed some of his cattle. After looking all over the country for them, he found them at last in the pasture being ridden and roped by a crowd of shouting boys. "Doc" Frazier was furious at first and threatened to take the boys' ropes from them. Will, realizing how serious this would be, decided to try to save the day by diplomacy. "Aw, Doc," he said with a disarming grin, "we didn't mean any harm. Anyhow you ought to be proud of them cows now. We've got 'em all gentled and broke to ride!" The boys kept their ropes but they had to abandon the school pasture as a roping place."

"Never change your tactics when winning. Likewise, if you are losing try something new even though it may be foreign to your usual style of play."

"The boy felt happy and excited. He liked the sweet air and the delightful chill of it at night no matter what the daytime heat had been. He would never forget his feeling of enchantment the previous afternoon when, seated on the prairie with a plate of food, he kept seeing the sky in all directions beneath his horse's belly no matter where the animal grazed around him. He was exhilarated by the lonely magnificence of the country, and the sense of freedom it inspired. It was like being in a boat on the ocean with no land in sight."

"They were chosen to die because somebody in our government thought that the world would be a better place to live if they weren’t around any more. Perhaps they thought it would make a difference, and maybe the world did get better for them because they received a promotion or a discrete commendation. But it didn’t change things much for the rest of us."

"Your countrymen, McCorkle, are seemingly indifferent to what happens in Africa. Most of them don’t care about what happens here, as long as it happens on the next block."

"Does she know all the people she says she knows?” “She knows everybody.” “Maybe that’s why she’s getting old."

"Another good touch. What do we charge for a regular martini?” “Ninty-five cents—ninety-eight cents with tax. What's it do to the tips?” Builds them. There aren’t as many dimes and nickels around, so they usually leave two-bits. The two cents' change is a sting to conscience.”"

"Eight-fifteen in the morning in Washington is not a happy time."

"You can grieve when someone dies. But when someone is near death, and there is the chance that you might prevent it if you make the right decision, anxiety takes over."

"You watch television much?” Padillo asked. “Some,” I said. “It’s like China. If you ignore it, it just gets worse."

"Never end a sentence with a preposition,” he recited. “Not never; just seldom."

"That's the hardest I've ever seen anyone hit a ball. . Ruth, anybody. I don't believe a man can hit a ball harder."

"The kid was great. He was the difference. The Yankees certainly didn't miss Joe DiMaggio out there in center field today—and won't as long as that guy's around."

"It was a Sunday doubleheader in Cleveland. Mickey's on third base, and they hit a ball to medium right field to me. I would get back on a ball like that, and then I'd come in and take it on the run and I really put everything I had behind it. I caught the ball on the run and Mickey faked me. I see him tagging up, and I wasn't taking any chances. The way he ran you couldn't afford to. So I reach back and let it go as hard as I could. It was like a line drive, but it was a little too high. It took off. jumped for the ball, but it just carried right over his glove. Mickey saw that and ran home. The ball hit the brick wall - they didn't have cushions around the walls in those days - and bounced - can you believe this - right back to Russ at home plate. Mickey was out at home. Mickey was so embarrassed, but it wasn't his fault. I had to laugh."

"He ought to have a league of his own. He's too much for everybody else."

"That horse had better win. I saw George get on the plane with an automatic."

"I figured that once I got past 40, that was all behind me. If I knew that I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself."

"Later on they tend to get longer than they really were."

"He was like a father to me, and I mean that. My dad died after I had been with the Yankees a year and I guess Casey felt it was up to him to bring me up right. He kept me when I wasn't ready for the big leagues. He had confidence in me. He taught me to think, to play hard from the first pitch to the last."

"I feel better than I have in years—no leg problems at all. But if I'm to get three more home runs, I'm afraid I'll have to get them right-handed. I don't know what's the matter. I've lost my confidence from that side. I've always been a better right-handed hitter than left, but it wasn't until recently that I really got into a left-handed slump. I just don't seem able to pull the trigger, hitting left-handed. I have no excuse for it. It's not my legs or anything. The ball just gets up to me before I know it."

"No one hit the ball harder than Frank Howard. He was the strongest I ever saw. I saw him hit a line drive off Whitey Ford at the stadium that Whitey actually jumped for, it was hit that low. It ended up hitting the speakers behind the monuments in dead center. I told Whitey later that it was lucky he didn't catch it because it would have drug him to death.""

"When you reach the major leagues, it's unbelievable how much you don't know about the game you've been playing all your life."

"The most underrated guy is the one who will do absolutely anything to win a game. The two who come to mind immediately are Billy Martin and Pete Rose."

"He who has the fastest golf cart never has a bad lie."

"I'd never show up a pitcher by standing in the batters box and watching how far the ball goes like a lot of players do now. But it made me feel good to know I could hit a ball longer than anyone else. It tickled the hell out of me. It was like playing in a golf tournament and hearing all the ohhs and ahhs when you hit a good drive. I mean, every time I swung at it I was trying to hit it longer than the time before. I'm sure that was why I struck out so much, but I'd get a kick out of it. Poor Casey would get so mad. He'd say, "Hey butcher boy, just make contact." But he couldn't get me to change. In fact, Whitey told me just last year that I'd shut my eyes just before I lunged."

"If we were choosing sides and every player was in the pool, my first pick would be Whitey Ford and my second would be Ted Williams. Beyond that there would be just too many and I'd be afraid of leaving somebody out. Besides, with Whitey on the mound and Williams in the lineup, we'd still beat just about anybody."

"That would be Sandy Koufax, even though he was in the National League and I didn't have to face him very much. Among American League lefties I'd have to pick Herb Score before he got hurt. From the right side, no question: Dick Radatz of the Red Sox. I once read in a Dallas newspaper that he struck me out 45 times. If he wasn't the toughest, I don't want to remember who was."

"I remembered what Jamie had said, that love doesn't solve anything. Maybe. But it helps."

"It was weird being lonesome in a place full of people."

"Mace," I said, struck by a thought, "did you ever think that all those people in those cars have a whole separate story to them, that it's just as important to them as our stuff is to us, and we don't know anything about it. Maybe sometime we'll run across somebody and two years ago they were driving past us on the highway and we never knew it. Like sometimes we meet people and bump off of them and never see them again and we never know why paths cross."

"There's room for saying things in bright shiny colours."

"I am not a big fan of meaning. Logic is also another nebulous thought. I attempt to bring threads of subjects, however shaggy, to my work and inject little suggesters to the picture itself, and this often puts a smile on my face."

"Most artists are doing basically the same thing — staying off the streets."

"I’m dead serious about being nonsensical."