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Memories are like baseball cards. I have many of them, but remember few of the details of any of them. Someone may find one of the ones that I have collected and ask me what I think of that one, and I can only fidget and think "Did I collect that one?"
I have so many of these invaluable pieces that often I forget the details of why I have such. Memory is such a thing that what is lost is just as valuable as what is remembered. How many stolen bases did Ricky Henderson have in 1989 is just as important as how did I convince that long lost person to be my friend that forgotten night? By the way Ricky had 77 stolen bases in 1989, 25 with the Yankees and 52 with the A's. The Yankees traded him to the A's because they thought at his advanced age of 30 his best years were behind him. Ricky proved them wrong to the fullest by playing productive baseball and becoming the major league leader in stolen bases. Nine seasons later in 1998 Ricky collected 66 stolen bases to lead the majors but, that's enough on Rickey Henderson.
I've read books by people that expose their detailed knowledge of the past and leave stripped souls like mine to wonder how does one recall such minute details from an ever growing past. Some can call the angels for reference and some can barely remember yesterday.
I remember London on a hot summer day, that was cool in comparison to the Tallahassee nights that enveloped me. I remember a member of the London police force tell the group that I was in that London was the safest big city in the world. He gave us a speech filled with English pleasantries that made the good scholars chuckle and the rest of us look to the brilliance of our souls to say that we weren't home anymore. A few weeks later bombs blew off. They blew while the students pressed there pillows to there bed sheets. We were no morning commuters, we slept as the bang of the explosion of tube railings rang. We awoke as the passengers of the next train went to the ground level to take the bus that would blow to the sky and leave all aboard next to the angels that cry.
I walked those streets for a few more weeks. I eyed the trash cans and thought they could contain something that might blow my brains. But nothing would blow. The terrorists had there throw.
Were they wrong? Just pedestrians on the street. Did they do what they wanted to prove?
Or did they just give proof, to the world that was always aloof? That hate is just a game. That you throw your grenade and they throw there's. That you might give to the church of deceased and they give to the free spirit of god.
I have no insight. Thousands were killed when planes hit the USA. Hundreds when the tubes were set a fire. The Spanish can never take a train without the thought of a blue and white wave that singes all of their hair. Russians our soldiers to the bone. They hate the Jews and the Germans, shouldn't they hate us all? But they got burnt when terrorists went into there hall. Lets see a play, lets see the world; lets see Chechnya when they don't want Russia to burn.
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