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52 The High Heat Hovering over a plate of spumoni in the kitchen, I grip the handle of my spoon. A hundred miles away, in public housing for seniors, my mother sets, twirls into her windup, cocks her arm back and unleashes a wad of bills, that she can’t pay, from a Home Shopping Network binge, miraculously amassed without a credit card. The pitch zooms up and in. The whiskers quiver on my chin. I told you no more curve balls, mom. I kick my spikes into the wood floor. But I’m a curve ball pitcher, she says, adjusting her cap. ...

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