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46 WideWorld of Sports He leans back to stuff some bills into his pocket and falls off his stool like a drunk falling off his stool— heavy, clumsy, pathetic. Struggling into his seat again he lights a cigarette: Holy Jesus Christ, he says, Holy Jesus Christ then glances over his shoulder to glare at the woman whose fat laugh rolls through the room. He’s not a bomb ready to go off. He’s not even a dangerous character. Above him on t.v. men in baseball jerseys prance upon a perfect carpet of clipped grass— someone spits in Cincinnati, someone lean and muscular and young. fucking bum, he mumbles at the rippling jaw, the powerful shoulders that launch a homer into the city over the left field wall, a city that lifts its hands in adulation. fucking bum, he says again and turns to face the man on his left who ignores his baleful stare. That’s itThat’s all she wroteWe’re outta here the man on the stool announces to no one in particular then spots a friend just coming in the door wearing a canvas boating cap and dilapidated sneakers. Hey Sully, he shouts, Hey Sully Here’s looking up your old address! as the t.v. sorts its images, 47 plays a beer commercial resolving over his head into a wishful dream: men in a bar laughing,drinking, beautiful women perched beside them on stools. ...

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