Quoted By:
Silly old bear.
If the harbinger of spring is the sound of a bat on a ball, then I have become the harbinger of winter, a barren and desolate spot that your bat will never hit.
As my ball strikes the padded glove, with the disgruntled furl of thirty thousand fans trudging out of the arena, watching as you throw down your bat in disgust, and mourn what can never be, know this: You will never defeat me, Pooh-Bear, not as long as you or I will live. They will never tell stories of your greatness, or herald you as the second coming of pinch hitters.
There are one hundred and eight stitches in every ball, Pooh-Bear.
How many do you think I can get in your face?
Silly old bear.
