Essay: "Ink-stained tears on game day"

Résumé du document

There it sat in its position of honor, and, breathing a sigh of admiration, Eric Wilson once again sat down on his leather recliner to watch ESPN while intermittently eying his most prized possession. The players on the TV screen often faded into unimportance when Eric compared the intangible colored figures dancing on the screen with his invaluable team-signed baseball. On innumerable occasions, Mr. Wilson had picked up his ball to study it, and the image of the scrawled names on the ball was permanently etched in his brain's photographic memory. He knew without a doubt that he could list every player on that ball and trace, in his mind, the perfect outline of each legend's characteristic signature. Only the prospect (and fear) that frequent handling and examination would smudge away the thousands-dollar ink marks kept him from reaching for the baseball every other minute.

Extraits

[...] have you seen my baseball-- the one that always sits right there on the shelf?” sir, I have it right here and I've made a great surprise for you with Startled by the comment, Eric Wilson's attention was instantly diverted from the lint under the sofa to his son. Between the chubby, little, six-year-old hands was his ball, stripped of all evidence of the glorious names, save for a few stray smudgy streaks. Stunned, Mr. Wilson sat back on the floor in silence, his head buried in his arms. now it's not all dirty anymore. We can finally play together and we won't get sick from the germs!” Ryan stated in childlike pride and innocence. When his father looked up with glassy eyes, however, his confidence faltered. [...]

[...] He just picked himself up off the floor and sat himself on the recliner in a stupor. The players on the screen were only colorful, moving pictures and the ball that gave them life and importance was now missing from its sacred place on the shelf, leaving an empty space that only magnified the loss. And for the rest of the day he sat there, concentrating on the empty patch of carpet that lay between the TV and the shelf, mourning for a loss he couldn't express, unable to find comfort in vengeance, and met only by confusion from the most innocent of criminals. [...]

[...] That's probably why he doesn't want me to touch it either, so that I don't get sick, but I'm a big boy and I'll clean his ball for him so he can play with it again and he'll be so happy with It was settled then, and when his father left the room, Ryan snuck up to the shelf and hoisted himself up to grab the ball. A few hours later, Mr. Wilson's favorite team was playing a big game, and as he took his usual position on the plush recliner and proceeded to glance to the signed ball, he was flabbergasted to see that it was missing. He searched the shelf and then frantically crawled on the floor, flinging his arms haphazardly under the sofa, lest the ball had rolled out of place. [...]

[...] He knew without a doubt that he could list every player on that ball and trace, in his mind, the perfect outline of each legend's characteristic signature. Only the prospect (and fear) that frequent handling and examination would smudge away the thousands-dollar ink marks kept him from reaching for the baseball every other minute. Little Ryan was quite accustomed to the site of his father's ritual admiration of the baseball. He often watched in bewilderment as his father would reach his arm up towards the ball, lower it hesitantly, and then sigh. [...]