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As the first well whacked ball of the season rose, hung, and fell, over the fence, wunking hard and hollow on the Chandlers' green garage roof, a big flock of white and gray pigeons leapt from the Chandlers' house and swung away, wings blinking in the hard spring sun. We held our breath, then cheered for Norton nearing second, and, then, seeing Mr. Chandler in the yard, fell hushed. As he retrieved the ball, wound up, and looped it back across the fence to Bill McMurtry, who relayed it in, we kept our hush, then cheered again, for him, for Norton, for the pigeons disappearing in the dazzling sky.

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