Fonte: New York Post
This is always the most wistful of all days in a baseball burg like ours, the day after baseball season officially ends, when we can no longer talk ourselves into squeezing any more hours out of the summer. It is especially difficult when morning breaks as this Thursday morning does, full of sunlight and just a whisper of warmth, a hint of heat. If you don’t look too closely at the trees, which are either full of the proof of autumn or barren of the evidence of summer, you can almost believe it is spring instead, with all of the hope that season brings.
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