十二月的玫瑰
Ros in December
Coaches more times than not u their hearts instead of their heads to make tough decisions. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the ca when I realized we had a baball conference game scheduled when our niors would be in Washington, D.C. for the annual nior field trip. We were a team dominated by niors, and for the first time in many years, we were in the conference race for first place. I knew we couldn’t win without our niors, so I called the rival coach and asked to reschedule the game when everyone was available to play.
“No way,” he replied. The niors were c rushed and offered to skip the much-awaited traditional trip. I assured them they needed to go on the trip as part of their educational experience, though I really wanted to accept their offer and win and go on to the conference championship. But I did not, and on that fateful Tuesday, I wished they were there to play.
I had nine underclass players eager and excited that they finally had a chance to play. The most excited player was a young mentally challenged boy we will call Billy. Billy was, I believe, overage, but becau he loved sports so much, an understanding principal had given him permission to be on the fo
otball and baball teams. Billy lived and breathed sports and now he would finally get his chance to play. I think his happiness captured the imagination of the eight other substitute players. Billy was very small in size, but he had a big heart and had earned the respect of his teammates with his effort and enthusiasm. He was a left-handed hitter and had good baball skills. His favorite pastime, except for the time he practiced sports, was to sit with the men at a local rural store talking about sports. On this day, I began to feel that a loss might even be worth Billy’s chance to play.
Our opponents jumped off to a four-run lead early in the game, just as expected. Somehow we came back to within one run, and that was the situation when we went to bat in the bottom of the ninth. I was plead with our team’s effort and the constant grin on Billy’s face. If only we , I thought, but th at’s asking too much. If we lo by one run, it will be a victory in itlf. The weakest part of our lineup was scheduled to hit, and the opposing coach put his ace pitcher in to al the victory.
To our surpri, with two outs, a batter walked, and the tying run was on first ba. Our next hitter was Billy. The crowd cheered as if this were the final inning of the conference championship, and Billy waved
jubilantly. I knew he would be unable to hit this pitcher, but what a day it had been for all of us. Strike one. Strike two. A fastball. Billy hit it down the middle over the right fielder’s head for a triple to tie the score. Billy was beside himlf, and the crowd went wild.
Ben, our next hitter, however, hadn’t hit the ball even once in batting practice or intrasquad games. I knew there was absolutely no way for the impossible dream to continue. Besides, our opponents had the top of their lineup if we went into overtime. It was a crazy situation and one that needed reckless strategy.
I called a time-out, and everyone emed confud when I walked to third ba and whispered something to Billy. As expected, Ben swung on the first two pitches, not coming clo to either. When the catcher threw the ball back to the pitcher Billy broke from third ba sprinting as hard as he could. The pitcher didn’t e him break, and when he did he whirled around wildly and fired the ball home. Billy dove in head first, beat the throw, and scored the winning run. This was not the World Series, but don’t tell that to anyone prent that day. Tears were shed as Billy, the hero, was lifted on the shoulders of all eight team members.
If you go through town today, forty-two years later, you’ll likely e Billy at that same country store rel
ating to an admiring group the story of the day he won the game that no one expected to win. Of all the spectacular events in my sports career, this memory is the highlight. It exemplified what sports can do for people, and Billy’s great day proved that to everyone who saw the game.
J. M. Barrie, the playwright, may have said it best when he wrote, “God gave us memories so that we might have ros in December.” Billy gave all of us a ro garden.
Big Red
The first time we t eyes on "Big Red," father, mother and I were trudging through the freshly fallen snow on our way to Hubble's Hardware store on Main Street in Huntsville, Ontario. We planned to enter our name in the annual Christmas drawing for a chance to win a hamper filled with fancy tinned cookies, tea, fruit and candy. As we pasd the Eaton's department store's window, we stopped as usual to gaze and do a bit of dreaming.
The gaily decorated window display held the best toys ever. I took an instant hankering for a huge green wagon. It was big enough to haul three armloads of firewood, two buckets of swill or a whole summer's worth of pop bottles picked from along the highway. There were skates that would
青岛婚礼make Millar's Pond well worth shovelling and dolls much too pretty to play with. And they were all nestled snugly beneath the breathtakingly flounced skirt of Big Red.
晚上睡不着觉是什么原因Mother's eyes were glued to the massive flare of red shimmering satin, dotted with twinkling quin-centred black velvet stars. "My goodness," she managed to say in trancelike wonder. "Would you just look at that dress!" Then, totally out of character, mother twirled one spin of a waltz on the slippery sidewalk. Beneath the heavy, wooden-buttoned, grey wool coat she had worn every winter for as long as I could remember, mother lost her balance and tumbled. Father quickly caught her.
Her cheeks redder than usual, mother swatted dad for laughing. "Oh, stop that!" she ordered, shooing his fluttering hands as he swept the snow from her coat. "What a silly dress to be perched up there in the window of Eaton's!" She shook her head in disgust. "Who on earth would want such a splashy dress?"
As we continued down the street, mother turned back for one more look. "My goodness! You'd think they'd display something a person could u!"
Christmas was nearing, and the red dress was soon forgotten. Mother, of all people, was not one to wish for, or spend money on, items that were not practical. "There are things we need more than this,
" she'd always say, or, "There are things we need more than that."
Father, on the other hand, liked to indulge whenever the budget allowed. Of cour, he'd get a scolding for his occasional splurging, but it was all done with the best intention.
Like the time he brought home the electric range. In our old Muskoka farmhou on Oxtongue Lake, Mother was still cooking year-round on a wood stove. In the summer, the kitchen would be so hot even the houflies wouldn't come inside. Yet, there would be Mother –roasting - right along with the pork and turnips.
One day, Dad surprid her with a fancy new electric range. She protested, of cour, saying that the wood stove cooked just dandy, that the electric stove was too dear and that it would cost too much hydro to run it. All the while, however, she was polishing its already shiny chrome knobs. In spite of her objections, Dad and I knew that she cherished that new stove.
手机充电爆炸
There were many other modern things that old farm needed, like indoor plumbing and a clothes dryer, but Mom insisted that tho things would have to wait until we could afford them. Mom was forever doing chores -
washing laundry by hand, tending the pigs and working in our huge garden - so she always wore mended, cotton-print houdress and an apron to protect the front. She did have one or two "special" dress saved for church on Sundays. And with everything el she did, she still managed to make almost all of our clothes. They weren't fancy, but they did wear well.
That Christmas I bought Dad a handful of fishing lures from the Five to a Dollar store, and wrapped them individually in matchboxes so he'd have plenty of gifts to open from me. Choosing something for Mother was much harder. When Dad and I asked, she thought carefully then hinted modestly for some tea towels, face cloths or a new dishpan.
On our last trip to town before Christmas, we were driving up Main Street when Mother suddenly exclaimed in surpri: "Would you just look at that!" She pointed excitedly as Dad drove past Eaton's.
"That big red dress is gone," she said in disbelief. "It's actually gone."
"Well . . . I'll be!" Dad chuckled. "By golly, it is!"
新学期计划10条"Who'd be fool enough to buy such a frivolous dress?" Mother questioned, shaking her head. I quickl
y stole a glance at Dad. His blue eyes were twinkling as he nudged me with his elbow. Mother craned her neck for another glimp out the rear window as we rode on up the street. "It's gone . . ." she whispered. I was almost certain that I detected a trace of yearning in her voice.
I'll never forget that Christmas morning. I watched as Mother peeled the tissue paper off a large box that read "Eaton's Finest Enamel Dishpan" on its lid.
"Oh Frank," she praid, "just what I wanted!" Dad was sitting in his rocker, a huge grin on his face.
松茸泡酒
专职司机"Only a fool wouldn't give a priceless wife like mine exactly what she wants for Christmas," he laughed. "Go ahead, open it up and make sure there are no chips." Dad winked at me, confirming his cret, and my heart filled with more love for my father than I thought it could hold!
Mother opened the box to find a big white enamel dishpan - overflowing with crimson satin that spilled out across her lap. With trembling hands she touched the elegant material of Big Red.
"Oh my goodness!" she managed to utter, her eyes filled with tears. "Oh Frank . . ." Her face was as bright as the star that twinkled on our tree in the corner of the small room. "You shouldn't have . . ." came her faint attempt at scolding.
"Oh now, never mind that!" Dad said. "Let's e if it fits," he laughed, helping her slip the marvellous dress over her shoulders. As the shimmering red satin fell around her, it gracefully hid the patched and faded floral houdress underneath.
I watched, my mouth agape, captivated by a radiance in my parents I had never noticed before. As they waltzed around the room, Big Red swirled its magic deep into my heart.
"You look beautiful," my dad whispered to my mom - and she surely did!
你才是我的幸福qq身份证绑定怎么更改
She was dancing. My crippled grandmother was dancing. I stood in the living room doorway absolutely stunned. I glanced at the kitchen table and sure enough-right under a small, framed drawing on the wall-was a freshly baked peach pie.
I heard her sing when I opened the door but did not want to interrupt the beautiful song by yelling I had arrived, so I just tiptoed to the living room. I looked at how her still-lean body bent beautifully, her arms greeting the sunlight that was pouring through the window. And Tho legs that had stiffly walked, aided with a cane, innsible shoes as long as I could remember. Now she was wearin
g beautiful dancing shoes and her legs obeyed her perfectly. No limping. No stiffness. Just beautiful, fluid motion. She was the pet of the dancing world. And then she’d had her accident and it was all over. I had read that in an old newspaper clipping.
She turned around in a slow pirouette and saw me standing in the doorway. Her song ended, and her beautiful movements with it, so abruptly that it felt like being shaken awake from a beautiful dream. The sudden silence rang in my ears. Grandma looked so much like a kid caught with her hand in a cookie jar that I couldn’t help mylf, and a slightly nervous laughter escaped. Grandma sighed and turned towards the kitchen. I followed her, not believing my eyes. She was walking with no difficulties in her beautiful shoes. We sat down by the table and cut ourlves big pieces of her delicious peach pie.
程门立雪"So...” I blurted, “How did your leg heal?"
