從母愛看體育與人生

Another Mother’s Day has come and gone， and I have not followed through on my promise of a Cadillac. Since I was young， I have read about how athletes， the ink barely dry on their multi-million-dollar contracts， buy their mothers shiny 1)Cadillacs so they can “cruise to the games” 2)in style. So， long ago， I promised mama that one day， when I made it to the big leagues， she too would get her own Cadillacs. She would always laugh and talk about how ridiculous she would look rolling by in a candy-paint 3)Coupe De Ville. She never mentioned how ludicrous it was to imagine her 4)scrawny， slow-footed son playing pro ball.

My mother has taught me many things over my 22 years， but there are two for which I will be forever grateful. One was to read. The other was that I wasn’t going to be the next Michael Jordan.

One slow dog of a day in mid-August of my sixth summer， after she had grown tired of listening to me whine about how I wanted a Super 5)Nintendo like the rest of my friends， she retrieved a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird and placed it on the table in front of me.

“We don’t play video games here，” she told me. “We read. That book will keep you company. You can never be bored when you have a book.”

“I’ll do anything but read，” I replied boldly.

“Then you can go play outside，” she replied calmly. “Those are your two options.”

Enraged as only a six-year-old 6)hellion can be， I turned defiantly and ran out the back door into the triple-digit heat and humidity stewing in our back yard.

I returned a few hours later， after two dozen laps around the block， 300 jump shots and a half-hour of tossing the football to myself. Too exhausted to gripe about how I wanted to play Tetris， I grabbed the tattered hardcover book that my mother had placed in front of the sofa.

As soon as I read about Jem’s 7)affinity for passing and 8)punting， my fears were assuaged. I read on. I did not stop until one long summer had ended， a fall had taken its place， and Boo Radley had come out.

I had learned to love to read.

The subscription to 9)Sports Illustrated followed later that year on my birthday. My mother knew her firstborn was sports-crazed before I could even tell her in words. She suspected as much when， at 18 months， I lined up my stuffed animals in the 10)wishbone offense. But I doubt she envisioned the obsession that would grow over the coming years. I read every page—the stories of spoiled， overpaid underachievers and the sagas of 11)gritty， hard-fought success; the accounts of thrilling overtime upsets and heartbreaking collapses on the back nine. When I wasn’t reading SI， I was 12)honing my skills， certain that one day I would grace its cover.

It must have been hard for my mother that day—after making sure Santa brought me the football uniforms I had asked for each Christmas， after watching me re-create

13)Super Bowls in the front yard every day after school， after addressing and stamping all those 14)illegible letters I wrote to the University of Texas football coaches telling them how to do their job—to tell me that I wasn’t going to be a pro football player. It must have been hard for her to tell the awkward， freckle-faced first grader the truth.

“You weren’t made to be a great athlete，” she told me. “You weren’t born big enough or fast enough to play football. If you want to play， you’re going to have to work really hard at it.”

I took her words and ran with them. And lifted weights. And rehabbed injuries. And lifted. And ran some more. I wasn’t 15)Rudy， but I was damn close.

My mother is the kind of person who can’t tell you how the 16)Redskins did last night. She can’t even tell you what they were trying to accomplish. But， from early 17)Pop Warner Saturday mornings to lazy 18)Little League afternoons to Friday night’s bright lights， she never missed a game. Were it not for her telling me the truth that day， I would have never seen the field.

I should have thanked her after every 19)touchdown I ever scored in high school. I should have run up into the stands and hugged her with each jump shot that fell through the net. I should have thanked her after every track meet and 20)rugby match and baseball game.

I should thank her every time I reach the end of a great book. I should thank her every Thursday when I race home to pluck my Sports Illustrated from the mail slot. She gave me all of this.

My mother gave me a perspective that allowed me to see why and the ability to articulate that passion. For that， I owe her more than a gleaming 21)Escalade， more than a dream house， more anything else I can possibly give back.

又一個母親節匆匆過去了，我還是沒能實現買一輛凱迪拉克的承諾。從小我就讀過許多關于運動員的文章，他們剛簽完幾百萬美元的合同，轉身就給媽媽買輛嶄新的凱迪拉克，這樣，媽媽就可以風光地開車去現場助陣了。所以，很久以前，我就向媽媽許諾，當我也進入大型球隊的那一天，我也給她買一輛凱迪拉克。她總會笑著說，如果她在大街上開一輛糖果色的凱迪拉克威樂，看上去一定會很滑稽?？墒?，她從來沒有說過，想象一下自己那個骨瘦如柴、磨磨蹭蹭的兒子打職業賽的場面，就會覺得滑稽可笑。

在過去的22年里，媽媽教會了我很多事情，其中最讓我感激不盡的兩件事是：一是教我喜歡上閱讀，二是使我懂得自己永遠成為不了第二個邁克爾#8226;喬丹。

我6歲那年的八月中旬，在某個漫長的一天里，我向媽媽哭鬧著要她給我買一部超級任天堂游戲機，因為我所有的朋友都人手一部，最后她實在受不了了，就找出一本小說《殺死一只知更鳥》，放在我前面的桌子上。

“我們家不玩游戲機，”她對我說，“我們讀書。那本書就是你的伙伴。只要手上有一本書，你就不會覺得無聊?！?/p>

“干什么都好，我就是不讀書！”我粗魯地回答。

“那么你就出去玩吧，”她鎮定地回答，“你只有這兩個選擇?！?/p>

當時只有6歲的我還是個淘氣鬼，聽完媽媽的話后，我生氣極了，叛逆地轉身從后門跑了出去，那時外面的溫度超過了37度（編者注：攝氏37度相當于華氏99度，這里三位數的溫度是指超過了37攝氏度），溽熱的空氣在后院彌散?！?br>