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41 Craig Paulenich Zero to the Bone -May, 1934 The elegant arc of the striker's bat is midway between golf swing and fungo, his legs crossed almost delicately, ankles nearly winged, arms extended in lethal follow-through, a state of homicidal grace, generations dependent upon its savage accuracy. The scab is on hands and knees. I make no apologies for it, offer no mea culpas. The wolves were at the door, teeth yellow as sulfur, tongues orange ribbons of steel, their breath stank of burnt bentonite and they clicked their ironjaws. I am not making this up. It really was bread from their mouths, bread and roses, as the Wobblies said, a shell game old as Brueghel and squirming dunghills, old as the great starvings and princes who doled out loaves or libraries. This is the Gospel according to Hillerich & Bradley, this is the Rule of Thumb: hickory baton, axe handle; coal and iron police dearing Dock Street; my father telling the horrified elementary teachers, "If he gets out of line, hit him over the head with a ball bat." There's beauty in the crack of bat on ball, song of a Red-Winged Blackbird, the broken bones of our enemies emerging like crocuses. ...

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