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Bleacher Views

If it’s not always fair…

Soon after they master Momma and Dadda, it seems toddlers learn to say, “It’s not fair,” especially around bed time. All kids feel they are struggling against an unfair universe that expects them to go to school; take baths; and play by the rules set by teachers, parents and the kid next door. It’s just not fair.

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Tom Terrific, a master on the mound

I have just read that Tom Seaver, one of the greatest pitchers of all time, is retiring from public life due to dementia. This disease has taken from us a seemingly ever increasing number recently, and it is a disease that exacts a terrible toll on the patient, the family and all those who love and respect the sufferer.
Dementia is infamous for robbing the patient of memory and then finally of life. It attacks the mind, the citadel of who we are, and Tom Seaver was something special indeed.

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Finally, spring baseball is in the air

I grew up playing baseball in Maine. Now, Maine summers are known for their gentle winds, moderate temperatures and cool nights. In other words, perfect baseball weather, as any number of tourists could tell you.

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It’s team time

There is an inborn bias in some of us that a proper sport is played outside. Sports played indoors, even during the winter, are somehow an indulgence; even hockey is better played on a frozen pond, and basketball belongs to hot summer nights under the lights of a playground.

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Celebrating Frank Robinson

The word has come through that Frank Robinson has died, and some of the love that so many of us share for the game of baseball went with him.
When I was a youngster living in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, a friend and I went into Cleveland on a fan bus to see Robinson play in an exhibition game against the Cleveland Indians, they being in the American League and Cincinnati, Robinson’s team, being in the National League: the two would not meet in the regular season there being no inter-league play at the time.

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Pennant hunting

When our distant ancestors were skulking about in caves, I suspect there were only two seasons: hunting season and hungry season. When the snow was piled up against the cave opening and when every animal with a reasonable survival instinct had gone into hibernation, I expect that our cave dwelling fore-fathers and mothers huddled around whatever fire they could muster and told stories about the warm days when sustenance was plentiful, and the clan could sit outside with full bellies, playing games with the young ones.

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