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 Cadillacs so they can “cruise to the games” 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 Coupe De Ville.She never mentioned how ludicrous it was to imagine her 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 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 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 toing 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 affinity for paing and punting, my fears were auaged.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 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 wishbone offense.But I doubt she envisioned the obseion that would grow over the coming years.I read every page—the stories of spoiled, overpaid underachievers and the sagas of gritty, hard-fought succe; the accounts of thrilling overtime upsets and heartbreaking collapses on the back nine.When I wasn’t reading SI, I was 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 Super Bowls in the front yard every day after school, after addreing and stamping all those 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 Rudy, but I was damn close.
My mother is the kind of person who can’t tell you how the Redskins did last night.She can’t even tell you what they were trying to accomplish.But, from early Pop Warner Saturday mornings to lazy Little League afternoons to Friday night’s bright lights, she never mied 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 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 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 paion.For that, I owe her more than a gleaming Escalade, more than a dream house, more anything else I can poibly give back.又一个母亲节匆匆过去了，我还是没能实现买一辆凯迪拉克的承诺。从小我就读过许多关于运动员的文章，他们刚签完几百万美元的合同，转身就给妈妈买辆崭新的凯迪拉克，这样，妈妈就可以风光地开车去现场助阵了。所以，很久以前，我就向妈妈许诺，当我也进入大型球队的那一天，我也给她买一辆凯迪拉克。她总会笑着说，如果她在大街上开一辆糖果色的凯迪拉克威乐，看上去一定会很滑稽。可是，她从来没有说过，想象一下自己那个骨瘦如柴、磨磨蹭蹭的儿子打职业赛的场面，就会觉得滑稽可笑。
在过去的22年里，妈妈教会了我很多事情，其中最让我感激不尽的两件事是：一是教我喜欢上阅读，二是使我懂得自己永远成为不了第二个迈克尔·乔丹。
我6岁那年的八月中旬，在某个漫长的一天里，我向妈妈哭闹着要她给我买一部超级任天堂游戏机，因为我所有的朋友都人手一部，最后她实在受不了了，就找出一本小说《杀死一只知更鸟》，放在我前面的桌子上。
“我们家不玩游戏机，”她对我说，“我们读书。那本书就是你的伙伴。只要手上有一本书，你就不会觉得无聊。”
“干什么都好，我就是不读书！”我粗鲁地回答。
“那么你就出去玩吧，”她镇定地回答，“你只有这两个选择。”
当时只有6岁的我还是个淘气鬼，听完妈妈的话后，我生气极了，叛逆地转身从后门跑了出去，那时外面的温度超过了37度（编者注：摄氏37度相当于华氏99度，这里三位数的温度是指超过了37摄氏度），溽热的空气在后院弥散。
我绕着街区跑了24圈，跳起投篮300下，抛接橄榄球30分钟，就这样一直玩了几个小时才回家。我已经累得没力气抱怨多么想玩俄罗斯方块了，于是拿起妈妈放在沙发前面的封皮破旧的精装版小说读了起来。 当我读到杰姆很喜欢带球过人和踢悬空球的时候，我的烦躁感减弱了。我读啊读，一直读到漫漫长夏结束，秋天慢慢来临，读到书中的另一个主角布?拉德力出场。
我喜欢上了阅读。
那一年年底我生日的时候，我家开始订阅《体育画报》。在我还不会说话之前，妈妈就知道自己的大儿子是一个超级体育迷。因为在我18个月大时，居然把毛绒动物玩具排成了Y字形的进攻阵型。但是我怀疑，这种在之后多年不断高涨的体育热情，最初是不是她自己想象出来的。《体育画报》的每一页我都认真阅读——被溺爱的孩子的故事、零用钱过多的学校差生的故事、通过坚忍不拔和不懈努力而换来成功的传奇故事，还有关于经过长时间的激烈比拼却在最后九个洞伤心落败的叙述。没有读《体育画报》的时候，我就磨练技术，信心十足地认为总有一天自己也可以风风光光地登上杂志封面。
当妈妈“确认”那些我每年圣诞节都许愿想要的球服的确都是圣诞老人送的时候；当妈妈看着我每天放学后都在前院模仿打超级杯球赛的时候；当我多次向德克萨斯州大学的橄榄球教练写信，歪歪斜斜地写道他们应该怎样教好球员，然后妈妈替我写上地址和贴上邮票的时候；当妈妈告诉我我不是职业橄榄球员的料的时候，她一定非常难过。对妈妈来说，把真相告诉这么一个笨手笨脚、满脸雀斑的一年级小学生，肯定很痛苦。
“你天生就不具备做一个优秀运动员的资质，”她告诉我，“你天生个头不够大，速度不够快，所以不适合打橄榄球。如果你真想打橄榄球，那你就真的要在那方面下苦功了。”
我听取了她的意见，每次跑步的时候都铭记于心。我还练习举重。受伤后积极恢复伤患。然后继续举重。再增加跑步锻炼。我不是电影《追梦赤子心》里的鲁迪，但是我下的苦功绝对不比他少。
即使看了昨天晚上的球赛，妈妈也说不出华盛顿印第安人的表现怎样，甚至说不出他们的目标是什么，她就是这样的人。然而，从每个星期六早上开赛的早期的波普?华纳少年橄榄球赛，到下午让人懒洋洋的少年棒球联赛，再到星期五晚上的大型赛事（编者注：文中的“lazy”描述的是“妈妈”看球赛时的状态，“bright lights”指晚上进行的赛事）她每场必看。如果那天她没有告诉我事实真相，我就不可能成为球员。
高中时的每次达阵得分，我都应该好好感谢她。每次跳射入网后，我都应该跑到观众席给她一个拥抱。每次田径运动会后，每次橄榄球赛后，每次棒球赛后，我都应该衷心感谢她。
每次我读完一本伟大的著作，我要感谢她。每个星期四我跑回家迫不及待地从信箱里抽出《体育画报》时，我要感谢她。是她给予了我这一切。
妈妈教会了我洞察事情缘由，和表达对体育的热忱的能力。所以，我欠她的远不止一辆崭新的凯迪拉克凯雷德，或者一座理想的房子，我欠她的今生今世都无法偿还。
爷爷的秘方
我站在爷爷奶奶的厨房里，注视着水气从炉上的大锅里袅袅升起。自我记事以来，爷爷下厨做果酱就是一件每年一度的大事。
由于爷爷患有膝关节炎，不能长时间站立，他就先煮果汁，然后拉过厨房的一张椅子，坐在炉子旁边。他一边胳膊肘支在厨房台面上，用木勺子搅拌着锅里的果酱。此时，我就蹑手蹑脚地走近爷爷身边，想看个究竟，但我当时太矮，炉子太高，什么都看不见。不过据我观察，就算爷爷伸直了项背也一样看不见。
“你怎么能知道什么时候果酱就好了呢，爷爷？” “反正我就知道。”
看着我焦急不安的样子，爷爷笑了。大多数小孩都爱吃果酱，但对我来说，爷爷做的果酱与众不同，它是用我们在院子里摘的李子做的。爷爷专门从那棵小李子树上摘那些依然高挂在树枝上晃来晃去的李子，我就拾那些已经掉落在地面上的。不管是青绿的、熟透的，还是落地开裂的，我都和爷爷一起把它们统统扔进桶里。
接着爷爷会把李子放在水槽里清洗，仔细地挑拣一番，把不适合的扔掉。然后我们开始蒸李子，熬出汁水来，并准备果酱罐。与其说我在帮忙，不如说是在添乱，但爷爷从来不抱怨，也不发脾气。
我还记得他第一次告诉我做果酱的秘诀。“做一手好果酱可是一门艺术啊，”他压低声音对我说。“长满虫子的李子，帕米（作者的小名），这就是秘方。虫子就是好果酱的秘方！”
我吓坏了，做了个鬼脸，并且告诉他我永远不会吃虫子的。绝对不吃！爷爷仰着头大笑起来，眼神里满是得意之情。
漫长的等待后，果酱终于做好了。果酱罐一排排地摆在餐桌上，从后面窗口射进来的阳光洒在罐子上，使深栗色的果酱淡化为耀眼的红，金属的盖子和边缘都闪闪发亮。我们用羹匙把果酱抹在面包上，再把面包对折，做成果酱三文治。
我看着爷爷咬下第一口。假使果酱里真有虫子，爷爷肯定是不会吃的吧？我确信这是爷爷开的又一个玩笑后，便也放心地吃了起来。
奶奶狐疑地望着我们俩。
“默尔，你告诉她说李子里有虫是吧？我的天啊！孩子，可别听他的！他是故意那样说的，这样他就可以吃更多的果酱了。”爷爷大笑起来，往面包上抹了更多的果酱。
同样的故事年复一年地上演着。爷爷总会一边搅拌着锅里的果酱，一边给我分享他的秘诀。他会弯下身来压低声音，望着我的眼睛说：“长满虫子的李子，帕米，这就是秘方！”说完便哈哈大笑起来。我猜想他一定只把这个秘方传授给了我一个人。也可能就是这样的，虽然说这话的时候，他总是声音很轻，生怕被隔壁房间的奶奶听到。
爷爷去世后的第二年，我和新婚丈夫搬进了乡野的一所小房子里。我们家的后院有一棵可爱的野生小李子树。我迫不及待地等着那些纤小、坚硬而青涩的果子成熟，那样我就可以一显身手，自己做果酱了。我花了将近一个星期的时间，每天摘李子，才刚刚够做一批果酱。我仔细地挑选、清洗并再次检查了这些果子。
我凭着那些年看爷爷做果酱的印象，第一次做果酱就做得相当成功。我为自己的手艺感到自豪，向来访的父亲展示了摆满一层搁板的果酱。
他拎起一罐果酱，迎着阳光细看，光线穿过玻璃瓶闪着红光。我想象果酱如何牵动他的味觉，期待他赶紧咬上一口。然后，我随口提起，我用了爷爷的秘方。爸爸慢慢地转过身来看着我，喜悦的神情从他脸上消失了。接着，他问了一句：“长满虫子的李子，对吧？”
我点点头。
离去的时候，爸爸只带走了一罐果酱。他对我的厨艺缺乏兴趣，但我并不介意。 我把一匙甜甜的果酱涂在一片烤面包上，暗自窃笑，想道：“这样正好我就可以多吃一点了。
I stood in my grandparents’ kitchen, watching the steam curl through the air above the big pot on the stove.It was an annual ritual, as far back as memory would take me: grandpa was making jelly.Unable to stand for long periods of time due to arthritic knees, Grandpa would get his juices cooking, then drag over one of the kitchen chairs and sit next to the stove.With an elbow propped on the counter top, he stirred the pot with a wooden spoon.I would tiptoe to see what it looked like, but I was too small to peek over the top.From what I could tell, though, Grandpa couldn’t stretch high enough to see in, either.
“How can you tell when it’s ready, Pa?” “I can tell.”
He would smile at my impatient fidgeting.Most children like jelly, but to me, Grandpa’s was special.It was made from the plums we picked in the yard.While he picked the ones still swinging high in the branches of the little plum tree, I picked up the ones that had been knocked down.Green, overripe or bruised, my contributions were toed right along with his into the bucket.Washing the plums in the sink, Grandpa would sort out and discreetly dispose of the unsuitable fruit.Then we steamed the plums, strained the juices and prepared the jars.Quite poibly, I was more of a hindrance than a help, but Grandpa never complained or lost patience.I can remember the first time he told me his recipe.“There’s an art to making good jelly,” he lowered his voice and told me.“Worms and all, Pammy, that’s the secret.Worms and all.”
Aghast, I’m sure, I made faces, while telling him I’d never eat worms.No way! Grandpa threw back his head and laughed.Amusement danced in his eyes.Then, at long last, the jelly was ready to eat.Jelly jars sat in rows on the tabletop, with the sunlight shining through the window behind.The deep maroon color would lighten to a brilliant red, and the gold tops and rims would glow.We spooned jelly onto bread and folded it over into sandwiches.I watched Grandpa take that first bite.Surely, if there were worms involved, he wouldn’t be eating it, would he? Feeling aured that it was another of Grandpa’s jokes, I began to eat, too.Grandma eyed us both suspiciously.“Merle, have you been telling her there were worms in those plums? Mercy! Don’t you be listening to him, girl! He just says that, so there’ll be more jelly left for him.”Grandpa laughed deeply as he spooned more jelly onto the bread.Each year was the same.While stirring the juice over the stove, Grandpa would share his recipe with me.He would lower his voice and bend over, so he could look me in the eye, telling me, “Worms and all, Pammy.That’s the secret.” Then, the laughter would come.I imagined that this was a secret he was paing down only to me.Quite poibly, though, he spoke softly, just so Grandma wouldn’t hear from the next room.
The year after Grandpa paed away, my new husband and I moved into a little home in the country.There was a lovely little wild plum tree in the backyard.I waited eagerly for those tiny, hard, green plums to ripen, so I could try my hand at jelly making.It took almost a week of gathering daily to get enough to make even one batch of jelly.I carefully sorted, washed and double-checked the fruit.Following what I could remember from watching Grandpa all those years ago, I succeeded in making a paable plum jelly at my first attempt.Proud of my accomplishment, I showed the shelf full of jelly jars to my dad.He held one up and admired the sunlight, shining red through the gla.I imagined his taste buds, waiting for his first bite.Then, I casually mentioned that I had used Grandpa’s recipe.The look of delight faded from Dad’s face as he turned slowly to look at me.Then he asked, “Worms and all?”
I nodded.At the end of his visit, he only took one jar home with him.His lack of interest in my culinary skills didn’t bother me, though.
As I spread a sweet spoonful onto a bite of toast, I thought with a smile, “It just leaves more jelly for me.”
