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Slowly the closer 
comes to the set position
signs exchanged, nodding,
shaking him off- no,
let’s go with old #1.
It’s what he’s there for;
never get beat on your 
second-best pitch.

He checks the runner,
not really interested-
his man’s at the plate.

Slowly, lazily, starting
his windup, he reaches back
and POP! the catcher’s
glove explodes, the ball conjured 
by some sorcery. Strike three.

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