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The lockout has entered it’s one-hundredth and eleventeenth day. I sit in my backyard and inhale the freshly cut lawn while day-dreaming of baseball in it’s professional form. I clutch and take a sip of my tall, perspiring beer. The spring birds chirp overhead in the trees. The trunks shaped like Goldy’s forearms - massive and defined. The memes come to me like a starving mutt on a cold street. Hell on earth, or is it just in my head? Where my baseball gone? The players and owners bicker as the lockout drags on. I take a drag from my smoke and stare endlessly into a now blank field. There is nothing anymore. Only fright. When will it end? Or should I ask, when will it begin? My family locks me outside, afraid of my mumblings and visions. They don’t understand. Baseball is life. Without baseball, there is no life.
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