• ExiledInSeattle

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    by 10-24-2013, 03:00 PM

    My dad washed dishes while I stood on a chair rinsing to the rhythm of the crackling radio play-by-play of Twins games. My focus was on the way my fingertips looked like raisins, on the enormity of the blue veins in dadís arms, on perfecting my drying rack Jenga strategy. Baseball was just background noise.

    My grandparentís house a few blocks away was my one source of television. There, the glow of the Minnesota Twins backlit my play. Baseball meant little more than sweaty mullets
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