The wisdom of baseball, as told in fortune cookies

An insurance run always pays dividends.

The checked swing never homers.

Catch flies, instead of swatting them.

Let your bat do the talking, and each crack shall be heard.

Benches are carved from wooden mitts.

To capture the wild pitch, hide behind its plate.

The warning track never cries wolf.

Someone pays for every stolen base.

Beer in the dugout ensures bad hops.

Paint the corners, and opposing batters must stand in them.

If your arm is sick, doctor the ball.

Big outs come from little ones that slipped away.

To crush a ball, kiss it goodbye.

Manufacture a run, and you’ll appreciate each ingredient.

The rhubarb is always sour.

Send pitchers to the showers, and you’ll clean up.

Juicy curves entice swingers.

Measure a blast by distance, a bunt by damage.

Bases can get loaded on highballs.

The lights-out pitcher brightly shines.

The wheelhouse is no place to hang a curve.

Chin music silences the banjo hitter.

A blown save remains unsatisfied.   

Circus clowns make circus catches.

Ducks on the pond often lay goose eggs.

At some point, everybody chokes up.

The shortest route is always going the distance.

Three up, three down… equals nothing.

The fatter the pitch, the more hide for tattooing.

On the seventh game, God watches.