Of course, marrying a poet was one thing, but fathering a son who preferred burying his face in poetry books to hunting...

当然，跟诗人结婚是一回事，但生个喜欢埋首诗书多过打猎的儿子……

well, that wasn't how Baba had envisioned it, I suppose.

这么说吧，那可不是爸爸所希望看到的，我想。

Real men didn't read poetry--and God forbid they should ever write it!

真正的男人不看诗--真主也禁止他们创作呢。

Real men--real boys--played soccer just as Baba had when he had been young.

真正的男人--真正的男孩--应该像爸爸小时候那样踢足球，

Now "that" was something to be passionate about.

那才是值得付出热情的玩意儿。

In 1970, Baba took a break from the construction of the orphanage and flew to Tehran for a month to watch the World Cup games on television,

1970年，爸爸暂停了恤孤院的工程，飞往德黑兰，在那儿停留一个月：

since at the time Afghanistan didn't have TVs yet.

由于阿富汗当时还没有电视，他只好去那边看世界杯足球赛。

He signed me up for soccer teams to stir the same passion in me.

为了激起我对足球的热情，他替我报名参加球队。

But I was pathetic, a blundering liability to my own team, always in the way of an opportune pass or unwittingly blocking an open lane.

但我这个可怜虫变成球队的负担，不是传丢了球，就是愚蠢地挡住队友的进攻路线。

I shambled about the field on scraggy legs, squalled for passes that never came my way.

我瘦弱的双腿跌跌撞撞地在球场上奔跑，声嘶力竭，球却不会滚到我脚下来。

And the harder I tried, waving my arms over my head frantically and screeching,

我越是喊得起劲，双手在头顶尽力挥舞，高声大喊:

"I'm open! I'm open!"

"传给我，传给我!"

the more I went ignored.

队友越是对我视若不见。

But Baba wouldn't give up.

但爸爸从不放弃。

When it became abundantly clear that I hadn't inherited a shred of his athletic talents,

等到他没有将任何运动天分遗传给我的事实昭然若揭之后，

he settled for trying to turn me into a passionate spectator.

他又开始试着把我变成一个充满热情的观众。

Certainly I could manage that, couldn't I?

当然，我能做得到，不是吗?

I faked interest for as long as possible.

我尽量装得兴致勃勃。

I cheered with him when Kabul's team scored against Kandahar and yelped insults at the referee when he called a penalty against our team.

我跟他一起，每逢喀布尔队跟坎大哈队（阿富汗南部城市）比赛，就大喊大叫；每逢我们的球队遭到判罚，就咒骂裁判。

But Baba sensed my lack of genuine interest and resigned himself to the bleak fact that his son was never going to either play or watch soccer.

但爸爸察觉到我并非真心实意，只好黯然放弃，接受这个悲惨的事实：他的儿子非但不喜欢玩足球，连当观众也心不在焉。

I remember one time Baba took me to the yearly "Buzkashi" tournament that took place on the first day of spring, New Year's Day.

我记得有个新年，爸爸带我去看一年一度的比武竞赛。比武竞赛在春季的第一天举行，

Buzkashi was, and still is, Afghanistan's national passion.

至今仍是阿富汗举国热爱的赛事。

A "chapandaz", a highly skilled horseman usually patronized by rich aficionados, has to snatch a goat or cattle carcass from the midst of a melee,

技艺精熟的骑士通常会得到大亨的赞助，他必须在混战中夺得一只屠宰后的羊或牛，

carry that carcass with him around the stadium at full gallop, and drop it in a scoring circle

驮着它全速绕看台迅跑，然后将其丢进得分圈。

while a team of other "chapandaz" chases him and does everything in its power--kick, claw, whip, punch--to snatch the carcass from him.

在他后面，会有另外一群骑士追逐着他，竭尽所能--脚踢、手抓、鞭打、拳击--试图将牛羊夺过来。

That day, the crowd roared with excitement as the horsemen on the field bellowed their battle cries and jostled for the carcass in a cloud of dust.

那天，骑士在战场上高声叫喊，横冲直撞，激起重重尘雾；观众则沸反盈天，兴奋异常；

The earth trembled with the clatter of hooves.

马蹄得得，震得大地抖动。

We watched from the upper bleachers as riders pounded past us at full gallop, yipping and yelling, foam flying from their horses' mouths.

我们坐在看台的座位上，看着那些骑士在我们面前呼啸而过，他们的坐骑则白沫横飞。

At one point Baba pointed to someone. "Amir, do you see that man sitting up there with those other men around him?"

爸爸指着某个人:"阿米尔，你看到坐在那边的家伙吗，身边围着很多人那个?"

I did.

我说:"看到了"。

"That's Henry Kissinger."

"那是亨利·基辛格。"

"Oh,"I said. I didn't know who Henry Kissinger was, and I might have asked.

"哦。"我不知道基辛格是何许人，兴许随口问了。

But at the moment, I watched with horror as one of the "chapandaz" fell off his saddle and was trampled under a score of hooves.

但在那个关头，我见到一件恐怖的事情：有个骑士从鞍上跌落，数十只马蹄从他身上践踏而过。

His body was tossed and hurled in the stampede like a rag doll, finally rolling to a stop when the melee moved on.

他的身体像个布娃娃，在马蹄飞舞间被拉来扯去。

He twitched once and lay motionless, his legs bent at unnatural angles, a pool of his blood soaking through the sand.

马队飞奔而过，他终于跌落下来，抽搐了一下，便再也没有动弹；他的双腿弯曲成不自然的角度，大片的血液染红了沙地。

I began to cry.

我放声大哭。

I cried all the way back Home.

我一路上哭着回家。

I remember how Baba's hands clenched around the steering wheel.

我记得爸爸的手死死抓住方向盘，

Clenched and unclenched.

一会儿抓紧，一会儿放松。

Mostly, I will never forget Baba's valiant efforts to conceal the disgusted look on his face as he drove in silence.

更重要的是，爸爸开车时沉默不语，厌恶溢于言表，我永远都不会忘记。  

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