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Will the Magic Never End?魅力无穷?

(2009-12-12 19:22:41)


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.



























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