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Schott NYC

Bomber3

Like all suburban boys with mothers that wouldn’t let them touch a football, growing up I my first taste of glory on the sun spotted, dew drenched grass lots of my hometown’s baseball fields. In those days I could barely make contact with an underhand pitch, let alone actually pay attention to the game for any longer than a couple of outs, and so it was out on those diamonds that I wandered into my early, innocuous delusions of grandeur. The game itself was irrelevant, but for that hour or two each weekend I could pretend that I was Sammy Sosa in the backfield, long before steroids,¬†adolescence, and an actual score card took away my wide-eyed love for the game.

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