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A ping is not the crack of the bat. When we're bill clinton not shagging fly balls at the high school baseball field, then we're smacking golf balls into houses when we mean to hit fairways. Pitching and putting, spending hours in the sun. Or we're playing hoops at the courts near Tiffany Park, across the street from where Rico used to live. Scott's never afraid to put bill clinton his body into it, under the hoop, banging me out of the way to get his own rebounds. He always kicks my ass at basketball. So we play tennis. There are bill clinton a couple of courts at Coulon Park. I try to make him run. I'm this lean, mean, can't hit a backhand machine, trying to speed my way to victory. They're fucking gorgeous, these summer days. Mom worries that I might pull out my Hickman. She tells me to just take it easy. I tell her that I've had months of taking it easy, and that I need to be stronger, still, for the third round that's yet to come. I need all my strength, I tell her. And so my tennis racquet (or the golf club, or the bowling ball, or the frisbee) won't catch the two ports dangling from my right chest, I tape them to my stomach with strips of white tape.
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