英语书籍：Bowling Across America（1）ZT
=====TODAY'S BOOK=====================
BOWLING ACROSS AMERICA
50 States in Rented Shoes
by Mike Walsh (nonfiction)
Published by St. Martin's Press
ISBN: 9780312366193
Text Copyright (c) 2008 by Mike Walsh
BOWLING (Part 1 of 5)
======================================
英语书籍：Bowling Across America 简介
Inspired by his father's unexpected passing, Mike Walsh,
a 27 year-old Chicago advertising executive, quits his
job to embark on an epic journey. The destination:
bowling alleys in each of the 50 states. Though dubbed
"career suicide" by colleagues, the endeavor soon touches
a nerve among many people--from frustrated middle managers
to radio talk show hosts to a woman who merely identifies
herself as "Bowling Spice" in an innuendo-laden email.
Conversations and adventures with the people he finds in
bowling alleys at all hours of the day and night--retired
Maine lobstermen, saucy European nannies, recovering addicts,
former bowling champions, college students, World War II
vets and lingerie saleswomen, to name a few--combine to form
a picture of what America looks like while standing in a pair
of rented shoes. Hilarious, insightful and at times moving,
"Bowling Across America" is an epic journey which will
enthrall readers everywhere.
********************
PREFACE
"Eighter from Decatur," he always said when his score was eight and
it was his turn to serve. I usually cringed when I heard it, in part
because a grown man shouldn't be employing such a silly rhyme, and
in part because it meant I would soon be losing nine to zero. I was
never a very good handball player, and certainly no match for
someone who'd played twice a week for the last forty years. Against
me he said it to lighten the mood and soften the crushing blow of
defeat a twenty-year-old feels at losing in athletic competition to
a sixty-year-old. Against a better-matched player he would say it to
unsettle his opponent with the appearance of nonchalance, or at
least annoy him with the rhyme's puerility. Years later I would
realize that this nonsensical phrase was among my father's last
words, but on the wintry Saturday morning when my brother Peter
phoned me with the news of his death, heavier thoughts tools hold.
Our father was sixty-six. He'd just finished a handball game,
stepped off the court for some water, and suddenly collapsed into a
taupe colored chair. It is the type of chair common to athletic
clubs, the sort that's upholstered with faux leather so the sweat
can be easily wiped away with a gym towel. The kind of chair that's
only comfortable if you're exhausted, that you'd never put in your
own home. Not the sort of chair you'd choose to die in, but there's
not always time to plan.
His friend and opponent, Dick Carr, tried to help him, brought my
father's limp, leaden body to the industrial carpeted floor and
performed CPR, did everything he could to revive him, but he was
gone before the ambulance even arrived. Astonishing. Unbelievable.
Completely unexpected.
Perhaps it shouldn't have been. After all, my father had often
stated his desire to die on the handball court, "with his gloves
on," to paraphrase the soldier's refrain about boots. Had we
believed him, we might have been a bit more thoughtful when saying
our good-byes to him on his way to play every Saturday morning. But
as it stood, his vision of the event was a tad too glorified to take
seriously.
It would be game point, his serve. His T-shirt would be saturated
with sweat, darkened several shades from its original heather gray.
His dingy leather handball gloves, worn to protect the hard rubber
ball from sweat more than to protect the hands from pain when
hitting it, would also be drenched and nearing the limit of their
effectiveness. A couple of weaselly racquetball players would be
impatiently waiting for their scheduled turn on the court. They
would probably be acting whiny and effeminate, wearing collared
shirts tucked into matching shorts with matching headbands. They
would be fretting about making their manicure appointments in time
following their game. Dad would be in no hurry to yield the court to
them, having always regarded the need for a racquet as a sign of
weakness. Checking Dick's position, bouncing the ball a couple of
times, and saying a brief warrior's prayer under his breath
("protect me, Father, in this great and final battle..."), he would
raise his right hand high behind him and swat the ball as it bounced
from the ground, delivering the serve of his life. Dick would return
it, miraculously, and an intense volley would ensue. Vulgarities
would be grunted as the two men lumbered about the court, slamming
into the walls, pushing each other out of the way, and each using
every possible angle to put the next ball out of his opponent's
reach. At last, Dick would manage to hit an unreachable ball, a ball
so far away and bouncing at such an angle that the laws of physics
would prohibit Dad's hulking body and remanufactured knees from
possibly, humanly, reaching it before it bounced a second time. But
he'd get there, leaping and making his entire six-three frame
parallel to the ground (this part, I believe he envisioned, would
occur in slow motion with a pause in midair) as he smacked a kill
shot into the front left corner. The ball would roll smoothly out
from the front wall, making it impossible to return. The last thing
he would see would be the blue orb rolling past his prostrate body.
The last sound he would hear as he grinned his dying grin would be
Dick's frustrated voice, ripped with agony, echoing in the humid
court. "D amn you, Leoooooo!"
When I first spoke with my oldest brother, Pat, knowing only that
Dad had been playing handball when he did, I asked rhetorically, "I
wonder if he won?"
Pat, always equipped with profound perspective, replied through
tears, "He won all his life."
By that night all six of his children returned home, the first time
we'd all been at 2152 Middlesex Road together in years. We'd come to
comfort our mother, one another. We'd come to celebrate our father's
life.
Planning a funeral is a lot like planning a wedding, only at a much
faster pace and without all the cake tastings. You order flowers,
invite everyone you know, reserve the church, select readings and
music, print programs, order a limo to pick you up after the
service, and bicker with loved ones over the details. The
differences between the two events tend to be subtle: invitations go
out by phone instead of calligraphy-scrawled stationery; people stop
by with hams and casseroles instead of china and toasters. And
instead of an engagement announcement for the paper, you write an
obituary.
Writing an obituary by committee is no easy task. My mother would
ultimately steal away in her bedroom to draft the version that
would appear in the paper, but not before we explored some potential
leads and inclusions as a family. This was the first time any of us
laughed since our father, a very funny man, had made us all cry that
morning.
"Maybe we should make it a singles ad," my mother suggested,
channeling her terror at suddenly being alone into humor. "Newly
widowed redhead seeks wealthy boy toy..."
Though I believed he was being truthful, I saw the obit as a chance
to debunk Dick Carr's contention that he'd won the last game he and
Dad played. "Leo Walsh, 66, suddenly, after beating Dick Carr in
handball," was my suggestion for the lead. That way we could explain
to Dick that with no other living witnesses to confirm his story,
we'd have to believe the newspaper's account.
Regan, my twenty-three-year-old sister, insisted that we list her
residence as "New York" despite the fact that she lived across the
Hudson River in Hoboken. "I don't want my old high school classmates
to think I live in Jersey." (This piece of spin actually made
the final draft. Karmic retribution for the Garden State would come
years later when the headline for Regan's wedding announcement--
appearing in a section that far more of her peers read than the
death notices--proclaimed: "To Reside in New Jersey" beneath a
beautiful picture of her and her hu*****and, John. If spirits can
manipulate this world from beyond, this was Dad's mischievous hand.)
We continued to cry aplenty, but the fine emotional line between
that release and laughter enabled us to find humor in the grimmest
of situations. Shopping for caskets led to faux debates over the
aesthetics and benefits of a box we'd see only once and whose
primary user wouldn't know the difference.
"This one looks fast," Peter said. "Maybe we should get it--Dad
liked fast cars."
"Ooh, feel how soft this one is! I bet it's comfortable."
(continued on Tuesday)
=====TODAY'S BOOK=====================
BOWLING ACROSS AMERICA
50 States in Rented Shoes
by Mike Walsh (nonfiction)
Published by St. Martin's Press
ISBN: 9780312366193
Text Copyright (c) 2008 by Mike Walsh
BOWLING (Part 1 of 5)
======================================
英语书籍：Bowling Across America 简介
Inspired by his father's unexpected passing, Mike Walsh,
a 27 year-old Chicago advertising executive, quits his
job to embark on an epic journey. The destination:
bowling alleys in each of the 50 states. Though dubbed
"career suicide" by colleagues, the endeavor soon touches
a nerve among many people--from frustrated middle managers
to radio talk show hosts to a woman who merely identifies
herself as "Bowling Spice" in an innuendo-laden email.
Conversations and adventures with the people he finds in
bowling alleys at all hours of the day and night--retired
Maine lobstermen, saucy European nannies, recovering addicts,
former bowling champions, college students, World War II
vets and lingerie saleswomen, to name a few--combine to form
a picture of what America looks like while standing in a pair
of rented shoes. Hilarious, insightful and at times moving,
"Bowling Across America" is an epic journey which will
enthrall readers everywhere.
********************
PREFACE
"Eighter from Decatur," he always said when his score was eight and
it was his turn to serve. I usually cringed when I heard it, in part
because a grown man shouldn't be employing such a silly rhyme, and
in part because it meant I would soon be losing nine to zero. I was
never a very good handball player, and certainly no match for
someone who'd played twice a week for the last forty years. Against
me he said it to lighten the mood and soften the crushing blow of
defeat a twenty-year-old feels at losing in athletic competition to
a sixty-year-old. Against a better-matched player he would say it to
unsettle his opponent with the appearance of nonchalance, or at
least annoy him with the rhyme's puerility. Years later I would
realize that this nonsensical phrase was among my father's last
words, but on the wintry Saturday morning when my brother Peter
phoned me with the news of his death, heavier thoughts tools hold.
Our father was sixty-six. He'd just finished a handball game,
stepped off the court for some water, and suddenly collapsed into a
taupe colored chair. It is the type of chair common to athletic
clubs, the sort that's upholstered with faux leather so the sweat
can be easily wiped away with a gym towel. The kind of chair that's
only comfortable if you're exhausted, that you'd never put in your
own home. Not the sort of chair you'd choose to die in, but there's
not always time to plan.
His friend and opponent, Dick Carr, tried to help him, brought my
father's limp, leaden body to the industrial carpeted floor and
performed CPR, did everything he could to revive him, but he was
gone before the ambulance even arrived. Astonishing. Unbelievable.
Completely unexpected.
Perhaps it shouldn't have been. After all, my father had often
stated his desire to die on the handball court, "with his gloves
on," to paraphrase the soldier's refrain about boots. Had we
believed him, we might have been a bit more thoughtful when saying
our good-byes to him on his way to play every Saturday morning. But
as it stood, his vision of the event was a tad too glorified to take
seriously.
It would be game point, his serve. His T-shirt would be saturated
with sweat, darkened several shades from its original heather gray.
His dingy leather handball gloves, worn to protect the hard rubber
ball from sweat more than to protect the hands from pain when
hitting it, would also be drenched and nearing the limit of their
effectiveness. A couple of weaselly racquetball players would be
impatiently waiting for their scheduled turn on the court. They
would probably be acting whiny and effeminate, wearing collared
shirts tucked into matching shorts with matching headbands. They
would be fretting about making their manicure appointments in time
following their game. Dad would be in no hurry to yield the court to
them, having always regarded the need for a racquet as a sign of
weakness. Checking Dick's position, bouncing the ball a couple of
times, and saying a brief warrior's prayer under his breath
("protect me, Father, in this great and final battle..."), he would
raise his right hand high behind him and swat the ball as it bounced
from the ground, delivering the serve of his life. Dick would return
it, miraculously, and an intense volley would ensue. Vulgarities
would be grunted as the two men lumbered about the court, slamming
into the walls, pushing each other out of the way, and each using
every possible angle to put the next ball out of his opponent's
reach. At last, Dick would manage to hit an unreachable ball, a ball
so far away and bouncing at such an angle that the laws of physics
would prohibit Dad's hulking body and remanufactured knees from
possibly, humanly, reaching it before it bounced a second time. But
he'd get there, leaping and making his entire six-three frame
parallel to the ground (this part, I believe he envisioned, would
occur in slow motion with a pause in midair) as he smacked a kill
shot into the front left corner. The ball would roll smoothly out
from the front wall, making it impossible to return. The last thing
he would see would be the blue orb rolling past his prostrate body.
The last sound he would hear as he grinned his dying grin would be
Dick's frustrated voice, ripped with agony, echoing in the humid
court. "D amn you, Leoooooo!"
When I first spoke with my oldest brother, Pat, knowing only that
Dad had been playing handball when he did, I asked rhetorically, "I
wonder if he won?"
Pat, always equipped with profound perspective, replied through
tears, "He won all his life."
By that night all six of his children returned home, the first time
we'd all been at 2152 Middlesex Road together in years. We'd come to
comfort our mother, one another. We'd come to celebrate our father's
life.
Planning a funeral is a lot like planning a wedding, only at a much
faster pace and without all the cake tastings. You order flowers,
invite everyone you know, reserve the church, select readings and
music, print programs, order a limo to pick you up after the
service, and bicker with loved ones over the details. The
differences between the two events tend to be subtle: invitations go
out by phone instead of calligraphy-scrawled stationery; people stop
by with hams and casseroles instead of china and toasters. And
instead of an engagement announcement for the paper, you write an
obituary.
Writing an obituary by committee is no easy task. My mother would
ultimately steal away in her bedroom to draft the version that
would appear in the paper, but not before we explored some potential
leads and inclusions as a family. This was the first time any of us
laughed since our father, a very funny man, had made us all cry that
morning.
"Maybe we should make it a singles ad," my mother suggested,
channeling her terror at suddenly being alone into humor. "Newly
widowed redhead seeks wealthy boy toy..."
Though I believed he was being truthful, I saw the obit as a chance
to debunk Dick Carr's contention that he'd won the last game he and
Dad played. "Leo Walsh, 66, suddenly, after beating Dick Carr in
handball," was my suggestion for the lead. That way we could explain
to Dick that with no other living witnesses to confirm his story,
we'd have to believe the newspaper's account.
Regan, my twenty-three-year-old sister, insisted that we list her
residence as "New York" despite the fact that she lived across the
Hudson River in Hoboken. "I don't want my old high school classmates
to think I live in Jersey." (This piece of spin actually made
the final draft. Karmic retribution for the Garden State would come
years later when the headline for Regan's wedding announcement--
appearing in a section that far more of her peers read than the
death notices--proclaimed: "To Reside in New Jersey" beneath a
beautiful picture of her and her hu*****and, John. If spirits can
manipulate this world from beyond, this was Dad's mischievous hand.)
We continued to cry aplenty, but the fine emotional line between
that release and laughter enabled us to find humor in the grimmest
of situations. Shopping for caskets led to faux debates over the
aesthetics and benefits of a box we'd see only once and whose
primary user wouldn't know the difference.
"This one looks fast," Peter said. "Maybe we should get it--Dad
liked fast cars."
"Ooh, feel how soft this one is! I bet it's comfortable."
(continued on Tuesday)
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