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The crowd hushes as I swing. It’s a miss. But wait. I’m not done. The pitcher throws a curve ball, it’s spinning and spinning. I swing with such force, but only air swooshes by me.
It’s the third pitch. Sweat pours from my brow and I dig my back hill into the sand. Pitcher performs his ritual with licking his index finger and breathing in two breaths of dirt filled air. He releases the ball. There’s a crack of the bat. The crowd gets to their feet and there’s a soundwave of awe…as they watch the ball soar through the Friday night lights that glorify the city.
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