Dear Abba, my dad: Do you remember when I used to run across those dry, yellow soccer fields in the Arizona heat, chasing a white ball with the other kids? I was number 03, Abba. I was never any good; I scored an average of zero goals per game, but whenever I got close to the goal, I'd glance toward the sidelines before I kicked the ball at the net. You were always standing, clapping earnestly.
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