whether underneath a bridge in the Bronx or next to a Con Ed field in downtown Manhattan or in the sprawling suburbs of Westchester, the rules of the game remain the same. But it is the secret language between fathers and sons, players and coaches, teammates and rivals, mothers chatting with one another in the bleachers that has enchanted me and inspired this poem.from The Washington Post: Poet's Choice: "Rules of Contact" by Jill Bialosky
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