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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Although they were slightly outnumbered, Henry and Bob thought they could take the three—Henry would fight that wormy, good-for-nuthin’ Truth, Bob would roll up his sleeves and go nose-to-nose with that self-righteous bastard Justice, and American Way, if things went as Henry and Bob imagined, would just stay out of the fight because, well, it was American Way—but when Truth and Justice’s sad little overweight friend wandered off three minutes into the scuffle, only to return hefting an old, dented up aluminum baseball bat, the two men weren’t quite so sure.
Muriel only liked the taste of beer if her cup was surrounded by a baseball park.
My father left me a legacy of baseball and I cannot attend a game without hearing his voice cheering somewhere in the crowd or catching a hint of sweat and Aramis amid the comforting aromas of hotdogs, popcorn and beer giving me the warm and certain feeling that he is still with me, but it is the loud crack of wood meeting rawhide and the ball grand slammed toward heaven as it disappears into the bright stadium lights that makes me realize that this is an apt metaphor for his soul.
If you’re sliding into home and your pants fill with foam it must be baseball season on Uranus.
More than fifty years in the making, he'd always secretly hoped his first baseball dream would involve something spectacular, but sadly, when it did come, it centered around a strike out following by several errors where he fumbled about and repeatedly dropped the ball, an almost embarrassing resemblance, he had to admit, to many of his less successful sex dreams.
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