Me, instead of Babe Ruth,
visiting an ill child in the hospital…
“I, umm, I would LOVE to hit a home run for you, kid. Believe me I would. I just, well—that’s so much pressure. I don’t do well with pressure. Say, kid, I’ll tell you what—I can promise you that I’ll have several at bats. And also, if you’re into seeing batters getting hit by pitches, I’ll crowd the plate and take one on the arm for you. The arm doesn’t hurt as bad as other places. Plus, you can tell your pals that Frank Ferri took a pitch on the arm just for you. How’s that sound, son? Whoa, whoa. How about instead of us posing for a picture together, I just give you a photo of me. The doctors said you’re not contagious, but I’m not so sure. I’ll stay all the way over here. Oh, and here’s a baseball cap. I can give it to you for half price. Part of the perks of playing pro ball. I’ll just need the money up front before I actually give you the hat. I see. Well, your parents must have some cash on them, no?”
Me, instead of Willis Reed,
after injuring myself during the playoffs… "
What kind of trainer are you? You were really going to let me walk through that tunnel, back out on the court and play, weren’t you? This thing hurts like a bitch. I got my money. Why would I go out there and risk permanently injuring myself if I get paid either way? Can you grab me a hot dog from one of the vendors? Oh, and a Coca-Cola? I’ll listen to the game here in the locker room. Is it bad if I root against the Knicks so people know they can’t win without me?"
Me, instead of Knute Rockne,
giving the “Win one for the Gipper” speech…
“The Gipper was on his deathbed, fellas, and you know what the brave guy said to me? He said, ’I’m not afraid, Frank. I’m not afraid of nothin’ but one thing: I’m afraid you’ll cover the spread.’ ‘Frank,’ he said. ‘Years from now, when things aren’t going well in your personal life and you need the money for divorce attorney fees and cognitive behavioral therapy, and your team isn’t doing so hot either and you’re about to take the field against an undefeated team that’s heavily favored, tell your boys to go out there and give it their all. But not too much. Tell them to give just enough to make it respectable, but don’t cover that spread. Because I know you, Frank. I know you’ll have bet against your own team.’ That’s what the Gipper said to me, team, word for word. So let’s go out there and play well but not cover the spread for the Gipper! Who’s with me?”
Me, instead of Secretariat,
at the Belmont Stakes…
“Oh baby is this easy! Just a few more strides, and—hold the phone. What do we have over there? Look at the sheen on that mare. Totally checking this stallion out. Can’t say I blame her. Couldn’t hurt if I went over to talk to her. I’m ahead by at least 30 lengths. Yeah, I got time… Hey, you. You ever been with a Triple Crown winner? Well, you’re about to be. Play your cards right, and I’ll sire the next superstar with you. Your trainer’s gonna rename you Been With The Greatest. Just let me finish this race. Hey, get your hands off me! She told me she was a mare! You’re going to arrest me? There is NO way she’s a foal! A filly maybe. Come on, she doesn’t look that young! Oh, Twice A Prince, I gave this one to you!”
Me, instead of Lou Gehrig,
making my farewell speech at Yankee Stadium…
“Fans, for the past two weeks you’ve been reading about the bad break I got. Bad break is an understatement. Bad break is getting a speeding ticket or ordering new kitchen cabinets and having the wrong color come in and then having to wait another eight weeks for the right cabinets to show up. No, I have ALS, a ravaging, horrible disease that will strangle me slowly, steadily and without pause. Today, I consider myself the most teed off, most bitter man on the face of the earth. I look around at these grand men I’ve played with and against, and I think, why couldn’t this have happened to one of them? Like how about Babe Ruth over there? I mean, look at him. He’s drunk… Oh god, why me!?! Do you hear me, God!?! Why me!!! … Wait, what’s that?… Folks, I just received word that the doctors are going to name this disease I have after me. ‘Frank Ferri’s Disease’ they’re going to call it. How ’bout that? My own disease. Guess I am one lucky fella.”