It must have been hard for my father to dash my eight-year-old dreams, his voice quivery as he assured me that I would not grow up to play second base for the Yankees. He replaced (or tried) my bat and glove with a tennis racquet, and we set out together to hit another kind of ball. But I still have my glove just in case. I'm a baseball fan.
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four-legged Luna / watches her namesake show off / best moon pie dog treat. The wind hints at rain so we see grandpa off and head for home, its windows “brazen in the setting sun.” pansy faces wink / as four Beatles sing their song / “I Want to Hold Your Hand”