I begin to call Morrie “Coach,” the way I used to address my high school track coach. Morrie likes the nickname.
“Coach,” he says. “All right, I’ll be your coach. And you can be my player. You can play all the lovely parts of life that I’m too old for now.”
Sometimes we eat together in the cafeteria. Morrie, to my delight, is even more of a slob than I am.
He talks instead of chewing, laughs with his mouth open,
delivers a passionate thought through a mouthful of egg salad, the little yellow pieces spewing from his teeth.
It cracks me up. The whole time I know him, I have two overwhelming desires: to hug him and to give him a napkin.
The Classroom
The sun beamed in through the dining room window, lighting up the hardwood floor. We had been talking there for nearly two hours.
The phone rang yet again and Morrie asked his helper, Connie, to get it.
She had been jotting the callers’ names in Morrie’s small black appointment book.
Friends. Meditation teachers. A discussion group. Someone who wanted to photograph him for a magazine.
It was clear I was not the only one interested in visiting my old professor—the “Nightline” appearance had made him something of a celebrity—
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색