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On Sundays We Still Gather

On the field behind the school,

grown men, all of us

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hitting baseballs,

shagging flies

under a tall blue sky.

The wayward summer wind

whispers our desire

(Russell to Green to Wiley

the crowd roars)

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softly across the infield,

scattering secrets

to anyone who will listen.

We have been on this field

too many times not to know

the importance of dirt and details:

(Always slide away

from the tag when stealing).

The sound of the banter

has never been louder:

(C'mon Bill, hum baby, hum,

Shut `em down,

smoke `em).

Caps askew, pot-bellied,

our hearts still surge

with each stroke of a Sunday

when we step up to the plate,

swing, make contact,

and run the bases

to get back home.

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