You're not supposed to think about Dachau in right field. Full of ice cream and beer and potato chips and all, you ought to keep your eye on the ball, your cleats planted firm in the soft summer grass. Uncle Ray sits tight behind his sunglasses and cap, he saw it all, over there, that other summer. He doesn't like to talk about it, just smokes his cigarette, keeps score, laughs. You're not supposed to ask someone like him what it felt like to kill a man. And when the letter comes with your name on it, I guess you ought to think of it as just another winter at Little League training camp.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com