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: Red, it took me sixteen years to get here. You play me, and I'll give ya the best I got. Red Blow
: I believe ya.
: [to his "best" pitcher who can't throw a strike
] Come on, Fowler! Throw strikes! Red Blow
: Fowler's killing worms, Pop.
: My ma urged me to get out of this game. When I was a kid, she pleaded with me. And I meant to, you know what I mean? But she died. Red Blow
: Tough. Pop Fisher
: Now look at me. I'm wet nurse to a last-place, dead-to-the-neck-up ball club, and I'm choking to death!
: Pretty good food, huh? Roy Hobbs
: Damn good. Red Blow
: You can't spell it, but it eats pretty good, don't it?