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Red Sky At Night

But as it happened, the first pitch, Red’s special, laden with spit and tobacco juice, zigzagged its way home. Just as it reached the pink-flowered flour sack, it curved like a martin changing directions. Any real ballplayer would have known it was outside by a mile. But Sammy Dan reached for it — a slow, easy stroke with the air of a man taking a leisurely stretch upon rising the day after the crops are in — and sent the ball heavenward.

By Myra McLarey December 1990
The Sun Interview

Mastering The Enemy Within

An Interview With Richard Strozzi-Heckler

My idea of a new warrior is one who takes on the challenge of facing his or her own aggression — mentally, physically, emotionally. The point is not to say that aggression is bad, but to recognize that it is within us, and to learn how to look at it and train it.

By D. Patrick Miller November 1990

All The Panamas In The World And Herb’s

Carol had on a pink blouse. Her bra straps made these small ridges in the cloth. Every time she bent to reach for another glass, a small crescent of purple poked from beneath the pink. It looked like the edge of a real whopper.

By T.L. Toma August 1990

Most Likely To Succeed

At home in Montgomery, Wanda’s azaleas are in full bloom, the whole front of the house covered in a profusion of lavender, pink, and fuchsia blossoms. Up here on Cape Cod, it is April and still there is frost on the windowpanes. Wanda’s daughter-in-law tries to fool everyone into believing it’s spring with the forsythia.

By Candace Perry May 1990
Readers Write


From suicide; to prison; into the boards

By Our Readers December 1989

Willie Mays And Mr. Tic Tac Toe

Willie Mays was only thirteen years old, but already center field was his private domain. His mitt seemed to have radar installed in it, registering the trajectory and velocity of the ball. All Willie had to do was glide into place, flip out his glove, and the ball would land there, trapped in leather.

By Rob Sullivan April 1989
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Anxious Wrestler

A Zen Story Of Psychotherapy

Nothing remained in the temple — except the mighty ocean rising and falling, and surging onward in its cycles. This was the sole reality. The temple itself disappeared. There was only the ocean, and the wrestler himself was the ocean.

By Ira Progoff January 1988

Gold And Black

Then he turns to me, and direct as an arrow says, “You gonna be there?” (This, I thought, is what they refer to in books as “the moment of truth.”) My heart was creeping up my esophagus like an inchworm; but my tongue would not unwind.

By David Koteen October 1986
Readers Write

Old Friends

Two World Wars and the Great Depression, the old Firesign Theater “Everything You Know Is Wrong,” a wet comb

By Our Readers August 1986