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Will the Magic Never End?魅力无穷?

(2009-12-12 19:22:41)
标签:

杂谈

分类: 翻译

 

(November 1987)

The Minnesota Twins’ victory in the 1987 World series was locked up before the first Series game ever began. When the team retured home a week before, after beating the Detroit Tigers for the American League Championship, the players were ushered into the Metrodome stadium in downtown Minneapolis for a homecoming event. They excepted some cheers and a few speeched. What they found were 55,000 blissed-out citizens thanking them for showering honor on our community. They stood there, slack-jewed in amzement. No way they could let this town down.

More amazing yet, Mrs. Coyote was there, the Anti-Fan.

To her, team sports represent the lowers form of peonage. She earns her exercise in the buck-fifty aerobics class down at the elementary school gymnasium. She roller-skates around our neighborhood lakes. She wipes our kitchen counters vigorously. All personal best kind of stuff, not rah rah team cheerleading.

So when she was sucked into the Metrodome with our son and his best friend, cheering wildly to welcome back the American League Champions, Twins mania had claimed its stoutes convert. After that, the St. Louis Catrdinals never had a chance.

My conversion was much simpler. I’m a sucker for any religious experience, and community is my religion.

The World Series landed on our city as if Moses and Walt Disney had descended simulraneously. Minnesotans worshipped and were moved, and it was good, and clean, and safe for families. And had a happy ending.

The impenetrable cool of our community was pierced and a whirlwind of emotion escaped.

Yeah! Go Twins!

Everyone felt it. the huge crowd at the World Series victory parda we attended with the kids included a guy walking shakily with a old stick for a cane, wearing a tattered coat, filthy hcap and several days’ growth of beard. He sported a button on his lapel: “I love the Twins.”

Our Number One son, the Big Guy, watched the final game in his college aormitory in Connecticut. When the Twins’ victory celebration erupted on the field, he jumped up to exult with his fellow students around him. Not Minnesotans, they were reluctant to partake in his inexpressible joy. Instead, they acted cynical, bored, distant. He returned to his room, depressed. He wanted to share his elation but had no appropriate community around him to share it with.

He tried to phone the family, to touch home base, share the feeling, but couldn’t get through. All the telephone circuits to Minnesota were jammed with other members of the Minnesota community calling home, touching base, shareing the feeling.

Two other voices clogging the phone line that night were those of my wife and eldest daughter, a high school senior. They had left town for a previously scheduled trip to prospect East Coast coleeges. Desperate to see the seventh game, they pulled the car off the freeway at a seedy motel in King of  Prussia, Pennsylvania and caught the last three innings. They too tried to call home to share the feeling, but couldn’t get through.

No matter, I wasn’t at home anyway. I was dancing through the downtown streets, our six-year-old daughter riding on my shoulders. She wore her new Twins hat sideways and falling over her eyes. Her T-shirt was decorated with “Win Twins” slongans she had learned to write in kindergarten. Her parka was festooned with Twins buttons.

 We wove ecstatically through the streets, high-fiving a thousand other hands. We didn’t want the feeling to end. We had attened the seventh game, and we had won.

Wait a minute, you sceam! A six-yeat-old had a ticket for the seventh and final game of the World Series? Yes, she did. Here is he story.

I had purchased four tickets through a friend. I was going. So was our middle son, age fifteen, and his best friend Art. My wife and older daughter were on the aforementioned college road trip, the other son at college.

I was trying to find a sitter for the youngerst so that I can offer the extra ticket for any of a thousand friends who in return would do me favors for the rest of my life, when I was visited by a photographer friend, in town to shoot the Series for Sports Illustrated. “Take her,” he said .“She’ll never forget it.”

Hw was right.

I know he was right because after the victory I had lunched with a neighborhood friend I hadn’t seen for months. Of course we discussed about the World Series and otherwise shared the feeling. He told me he was especially pleased the Twins had won because he loathed the St. Louis Cardinals. Why’s that? I asked. He grew up oin St. Louis but was a St. Louis Browns fan, therefor a bitter antagonist of the cross-town rival Cardinals.

He said that he became a Browns fan because his parents took him to the World Series in 1948 when he was six years old. He never forgot it.

 My friend specially racalled the Browns’ one-armed outfielder. He would catch the ball, drop his glove, grab the ball from the air and fire it in. he batted one-handed. Now that I think of it, said my friend, maybe my lifelone work with the disvantaged stems from that one-armed vision of transcendence.

What will my six-year-old carry away her seventh game experience? Will she remember penciling in bital game statistics on the scorebcard? Playing tic-tac-toe with me between innings? Wearing earplus of toilet paper when the crowd noise equaled a jet taking off in the back yard? Snake dancing through euphoric streeds at midnight, high-fiving a blissful population?

Perphaps when she grows up she’ll become a psychologist with a special research interesting in twins. Or a policewoman working crowd control. Perhaps she’ll become a religious zealot promoting mass hysteri. Perhaps she’ll be stone deaf.

Certainly she will remember the unreality of the last weeks of this particular baseball season—from a communiyu counting magic numbers to a magic community feeling. The Twins, our civic religion, won the Series, and every citizen glows a litter more brightly.

在1987年世界系列赛上,明尼苏达双子队在首场比赛开赛前就锁定了胜局。在此前一周,这支队伍在美国冠军联赛中击败了底特律老虎队,凯旋而归。队员们来到,明尼阿波利斯市的明尼苏达双城体育场,参加一个还乡庆典。他们都以为只是表表谢意,发发言之类的,没想到足有55,000多欢天喜地的民众在场,感谢他们为社会赢得了极大荣誉。队员们站在那里,目瞪口呆,心潮澎湃。他们决心不让这个城镇失望。

更为不可思议的是,狼太太也去了,她曾经不喜欢球赛。

在她眼中,团队比赛代表着苦工制度的最低级形式。她去小学健身房参加50美元有氧班锻炼身体,也去我们小区周围的场地滑旱冰。她做家务时精力充沛。带领拉拉队呼喊不是一件好事情。

所以当她与我们儿子和儿子的伙伴一同进入Metrodome体育场,大声呼唤欢迎美洲联赛的冠军归来时,狂热的双子队赢得了她完全的转变。此后,圣路易斯主教队再没翻盘机会。

我的转变十分简单.我对所有宗教活动都十分感兴趣,而公众就是我的宗教。

世界系列赛来到我们这个城市,就如同摩西和怀特迪斯尼同时光临一样。明尼苏达人崇拜它并被其打动,这比赛适合阖家观赏,又好,又文明,又安全。而且结局皆大欢喜。

民众间那种不可理喻的冷淡杯冲破了,激情有如一阵风卷了出来。

耶!双子队加油!

每个人都感受到了。我们,包括孩子们,加入了世界系列赛的胜利大游行,其中有一个家伙穿着破旧的大衣,带着脏脏的帽子,胡子也很久没刮了,拄着根旧手杖,一步三抖地也参与到其中。他摆弄着自己的大衣纽扣,说:“我爱双子队。”

我们的大儿子,那个大块头,在康涅狄格州他的大学宿舍里收看了这场比赛。当双子队在赛场上庆祝胜利的那一刻,他也跳起来,想和他周围的同学同庆。可那些同学不是明尼苏达人,不愿意分享他那无以名状的快乐。与之相反,他们表现得自私,厌烦而又冷漠。我儿子回到了自己的房子,垂头丧气。他想分享他的快乐,但是在周围找不到合适的人来这么做。

他试着给家里打电话,和家人取得联系,分享这一感觉,但打不通。所有明尼苏达的电话线都被打爆了,人们都打电话回家,联系家人,分享这一感觉。

那晚,另外还有两个声音,也被电话线阻隔着,那是我妻子和快高中毕业的大女儿。她俩按着先前的出行计划,离开城镇去期待中的东海岸各大学了。为了看上第七轮比赛,她们不惜一切,把车驶离高速路,来到宾夕法尼亚州普鲁士王市一个脏乱的汽车旅馆,赶上了最后三局。她们也试着打电话给家里,联系家人,想要分享那感受,但是打不通。

没关系,反正我也不在家。我在市中心的街道上手舞足蹈,肩膀上坐着我们六岁的女儿。她歪戴着她的新双子队帽子,眼睛都被帽子盖住了。她那T恤上写着口号,“与双子同在”。这是她在幼儿园里学的。她的外套上也别着些双子队徽章。

我们在街道上欢乐地挥动双手,与成千上万只个人击掌致意。我们毫无倦意。我们打进了决赛,而且赢了。

等一下,你很吃惊?一个六岁大的小孩有一张世界系列赛第七轮和决赛的票?是啊,她有。是这么回事。

我从一个朋友那里弄来了四张票。我一张,我儿子和他最好的朋友阿特各一张。我妻子和大女儿在上面提到的学院之旅途中,了一个儿子在大学。

我曾试着为最小的孩子找个临时保姆。这样就可以为那千百个朋友多匀出一张票了,他们一定会在以后回报我。就在此时,我的一个摄影师朋友来看我,他在这里为《体育画报》拍一组照片。“带着她吧”,他说,“她将终生难忘。”

他是对的。

我这么认为,是因为在比赛胜利后,我和一个几月未见面的邻里朋友在一块吃午饭。我们自然讨论了世界系列赛,并分享了感受。他告诉我她对于双子队的胜利十分高兴,因为他憎恶圣路易斯主教队。为什么呢?我问。“我在圣路易斯长大,但我是圣路易斯布朗队的球迷,因此对于同城的主教队十分反感。”

他说他成为布朗队的球迷,是因为他父母在1948带他去看了世界系列赛。那年他六岁。他永远不会忘记。

我的朋友对布朗队的单臂外场手印象尤其深刻。他会追上球,丢下手套,从空中接住球然后射进去。他用单手击球。“如今当我想起这个,”我朋友说,“也许单臂的帅哥影响了我的一生。”

我六岁大的孩子会从她七轮赛的经历学到什么呢?她会记得在记分卡上用铅笔统计重要赛事吗?我们在赛场休息时玩圈叉游戏?当观众们发出有如喷气式飞机般的声音时ongoing卫生纸堵住耳朵?深夜在街上扭来扭去,和别人快乐的击掌?

也许当她长大后,会成为一个对研究双生子有独特兴趣的心理学家。或者是一个维持秩序的警察。也许会成为一个鼓动大众的狂热宗教分子。也许她会完全失聪。

当然,她会记住上周那奇幻而独特的棒球赛从不可思议的大众参与数字,到魅力无穷的大众感受。双子队,我们城市的偶像,赢得了系列赛,而且每个市民都增添了些许快乐。

 

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