The disease owns him. I raise my voice and do the Gehrig imitation, where the words bounce off the stadium walls:
“Too-dayyy... I feeel like... the luckiest maaaan... on the face of the earth...”
Morrie closes his eyes and nods slowly. “Yeah. Well. I didn’t say that.”
The Fifth Tuesday We Talk About Family
It was the first week in September, back-to-school week, and after thirty-five consecutive autumns,
my old professor did not have a class waiting for him on a college campus.
Boston was teeming with students, double-parked on side streets, unloading trunks.
And here was Morrie in his study. It seemed wrong, like those football players who finally retire
and have to face that first Sunday at home, watching on TV, thinking, I could still do that.
I have learned from dealing with those players that it is best to leave them alone when their old seasons come around.
Don’t say anything. But then, I didn’t need to remind Morrie of his dwindling time.
For our taped conversations, we had switched from handheld microphones—
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