It Was Life Itself

A discussion near the pitcher’s mound ensued. There were clenched fists, red faces, cursing, nose-to-nose confrontations, spittle flying, threats, pushing, and gloves lifted high overhead then slammed to the turf in anger quickly followed by baseball cap—just as we had been taught by watching the adult, professional ball-players on television when they had their bench clearing brawls. The participants were careful to keep the belligerence this side of fisticuffs. Bitter experience had taught us once punches started flying there’d be bloody noses, black eyes, and, even worse, termination of the game. Nobody wanted that. We were here to play ball.

A discussion near the pitcher’s mound ensued. There were clenched fists, red faces, cursing, nose-to-nose confrontations, spittle flying, threats, pushing, and gloves lifted high overhead then slammed to the turf in anger quickly followed by baseball cap—just as we had been taught by watching the adult, professional ball-players on television when they had their bench clearing brawls. The participants were careful to keep the belligerence this side of fisticuffs. Bitter experience had taught us once punches started flying there’d be bloody noses, black eyes, and, even worse, termination of the game. Nobody wanted that. We were here to play ball.

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