There I stood. Facing down the old man. Wiffle ball bat in hand, I was enjoying a modified version of America’s pastime. And when that hollowed out ball made contact with my thin yellow bat, I felt like a major leaguer. So as that ball flew across our backyard, I deserved a major league call. “Watch that baby, OUTTA HERE!” Those were the words I called out as I rounded the bases imitating the voice of summer, Harry Kalas. And now that voice will be no more.

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