the kite runner-第9部分

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undering　liability　to　my　own　team；　always　in　the　way　of　an　opportune　pass　or　unwittingly　blocking　an　open　lane。　I　shambled　about　the　field　on　scraggy　legs；　squalled　for　passes　that　never　came　my　way。　And　the　harder　I　tried；　waving　my　arms　over　my　head　frantically　and　screeching；　　I　m　open！　I　m　open！　　the　more　I　went　ignored。　But　Baba　wouldn　t　give　up。　When　it　became　abundantly　clear　that　I　hadn　t　inherited　a　shred　of　his　athletic　talents；　he　settled　for　trying　to　turn　me　into　a　passionate　spectator。　Certainly　I　could　manage　that；　couldn　t　I？　I　faked　interest　for　as　long　as　possible。　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。　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。
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。　Buzkashi　was；　and　still　is；　Afghanistan　s　national　passion。　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；　carry　that　carcass　with　him　around　the　stadium　at　full　gallop；　and　drop　it　in　a　scoring　circle　while　a　team　of　other　_chapandaz_　chases　him　and　does　everything　in　its　power……kick；　claw；　whip；　punch……to　snatch　the　carcass　from　him。　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。　The　earth　trembled　with　the　clatter　of　hooves。　We　watched　from　the　upper　bleachers　as　riders　pounded　past　us　at　full　gallop；　yipping　and　yelling；　foam　flying　from　their　horses　　mouths。
At　one　point　Baba　pointed　to　someone。　　Amir；　do　you　see　that　man　sitting　up　there　with　those　other　men　around　him？　
I　did。
　That　s　Henry　Kissinger。　
　Oh；　　I　said。　I　didn　t　know　who　Henry　Kissinger　was；　and　I　might　have　asked。　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。　His　body　was　tossed　and　hurled　in　the　stampede　like　a　rag　doll；　finally　rolling　to　a　stop　when　the　melee　moved　on。　He　twitched　once　and　lay　motionless；　his　legs　bent　at　unnatural　angles；　a　pool　of　his　blood　soaking　through　the　sand。
I　began　to　cry。
I　cried　all　the　way　back　home。　I　remember　how　Baba　s　hands　clenched　around　the　steering　wheel。　Clenched　and　unclenched。　Mostly；　I　will　never　forget　Baba　s
valiant　efforts　to　conceal　the　disgusted　look　on　his　face　as　he　drove　in　silence。
Later　that　night；　I　was　passing　by　my　father　s　study　when　I　overheard　him　speaking　to　Rahim　Khan。　I　pressed　my　ear　to　the　closed　door。
　……grateful　that　he　s　healthy；　　Rahim　Khan　was　saying。
　I　know；　I　know。　But　he　s　always　buried　in　those　books　or　shuffling　around　the　house　like　he　s　lost　in　some　dream。　
　And？　
　I　wasn　t　like　that。　　Baba　sounded　frustrated；　almost　angry。
Rahim　Khan　laughed。　　Children　aren　t　coloring　books。　You　don　t　get　to　fill　them　with　your　favorite　colors。　
　I　m　telling　you；　　Baba　said；　　I　wasn　t　like　that　at　all；　and　neither　were　any　of　the　kids　I　grew　up　with。　
　You　know；　sometimes　you　are　the　most　self…centered　man　I　know；　　Rahim　Khan　said。　He　was　the　only　person　I　knew　who　could　get　away　with　saying　something　like　that　to　Baba。
　It　has　nothing　to　do　with　that。　
　Nay？　
　Nay。　
　Then　what？　
I　heard　the　leather　of　Baba　s　seat　creaking　as　he　shifted　on　it。　I　closed　my　eyes；　pressed　my　ear　even　harder　against　the　door；　wanting　to　hear；　not　wanting　to　hear。　　Sometimes　I　look　out　this　window　and　I　see　him　playing　on　the　street　with　the　neighborhood　boys。　I　see　how　they　push　him　around；　take　his　toys　from　him；　give　him　a　shove　here；　a　whack　there。　And；　you　know；　he　never　fights　back。　Never。　He　just。。。　drops　his　head　and。。。　
　So　he　s　not　violent；　　Rahim　Khan　said。
　That　s　not　what　I　mean；　Rahim；　and　you　know　it；　　Baba　shot　back。　　There　is　something　missing　in　that　boy。　
　Yes；　a　mean　streak。　
　Self…defense　has　nothing　to　do　with　meanness。　You　know　what　always　happens　whe