only the ump got a gnat in his eye, and missed calling the third strike, and
you were there, in some disbelieve, as yet another next pitch came,
and you were swinging and felt the sweet solid impact and it was gone
and your life began again, you circled the bases thinking nothing,
dimly hearing the roar but a grin began to spread, and as you cross
the plate you see your buds waiting people who encourage you to try,
and isn't that what we all need sometimes

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Index of new writing © 2000 Thomas Coleman
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