Flirt: The Interviews Read Online Free PDF
Author: Lorna Jackson
Sorry to hold you up. Your father was your coach.
âYes, my father taught me. And Peterâs father was his.
âMan, I play tennis with my daughter in the shade of old growth fir on a hot summer morning, the clean breeze reaching up off the strait, our visors tipped against the dappling sun and spritz of pitch, our arms getting brown and our strokes â our ability to wait for the ball to drop to our waists
â improving; old men in retro-whites play anemic but cheery doubles next court and discuss the updated stats of their hummingbird feeders and their wivesâ most recent blood test with accents both British and eastern European (Nick, the only one in a singlet) while keeping score and disputing
calls ironically; the occasional diving shriek of a kingfisher, no pressure, just a smooth rally. Even there, tears end the session and theyâre not always hers. The game face of my daughter is a Bertuzzi scowl of bad manners and lazy psychology.
âMany times, my father would make me walk home from the rink because of my attitude on the bench.
âWould you do that now? Make your little girl walk home?
âHe was always honest, my father. He always told me the truth. Your form is improvinâ already.
âHe said that?
âNo, Iâm talkinâ about you. Your form is better.
âYeah, thanks.
âYou look more natural in the boat and stronger, too.
âRight, yeah.
âBend at the waist just a little. Breathe in through your nose, out through â
âI know, I know. I work out. I can breathe. Iâm old but not that old. They say fifty is the new thirty but that would be eighty in hockey years.
âItâs true, though. This is a lot like home, itâs relaxinâ on the water and quiet without a motor.
âYou have the same birthday as my dead sister.
âHold up, Iâm cominâ back there. This fog will only last a few minutes. Letâs paddle alongside each other. That way, I can watch those wrists. Firm them up, no togglinâ.
âThe water goes so smooth when the fog comes in. Itâs like the cocktail partyâs over and weâre the only ones left in the messy quiet.
âExcept I donât drink.
âMe either.
âThat should help with your moods.
âWhat moods? Who told you that?
âItâs only tennis.
âA writer I like, a Canadian turned ultimate New Yorker who still believes hockey is the greatest game, says, âWe are optimists and look to sports to amplify our optimism.â
âItâs true. Thereâs always a way to play better, always a new season to feel good about before it starts. Always a way, a system, to overcome obstacles â injuries, mistakes, whatever. I think fans look at us and see that we persevere and we show them thereâs hope, even when spirit breaks, or your leg or elbow, even when a best friend is broken badly.
âNow, I know youâre a spiritual guy. Your dadâs a pastor, right?
âSort of.
âIngmar Bergmanâs father was, too. You knew that?
âLutheran, I think.
âRemind me to ask you about Bergman at some point.
âOh, ya, you bet.
âAnd I know you donât want to tell me about how faith works in your life, but it seems so much a part of your game and your life. Itâs too bad you donât want to share your wisdom and help us all to maybe get along better and be happier and decide whatâs holy and whatâs not.
âWell, Iâm a public figure but Iâm also private and so is my family.
âYes, but what is it about Christians that makes them so insider-ish? Itâs like they have a secret society and the rest of us donât get to come to the meetings. If itâs so great in there, why canât everybody come in, chug a cold beer and a Cheez Whiz sandwich, and then leave?
âYou donât have churches in the Strait of Juan de Fuca?
âHa. Iâm not talking
âYes, my father taught me. And Peterâs father was his.
âMan, I play tennis with my daughter in the shade of old growth fir on a hot summer morning, the clean breeze reaching up off the strait, our visors tipped against the dappling sun and spritz of pitch, our arms getting brown and our strokes â our ability to wait for the ball to drop to our waists
â improving; old men in retro-whites play anemic but cheery doubles next court and discuss the updated stats of their hummingbird feeders and their wivesâ most recent blood test with accents both British and eastern European (Nick, the only one in a singlet) while keeping score and disputing
calls ironically; the occasional diving shriek of a kingfisher, no pressure, just a smooth rally. Even there, tears end the session and theyâre not always hers. The game face of my daughter is a Bertuzzi scowl of bad manners and lazy psychology.
âMany times, my father would make me walk home from the rink because of my attitude on the bench.
âWould you do that now? Make your little girl walk home?
âHe was always honest, my father. He always told me the truth. Your form is improvinâ already.
âHe said that?
âNo, Iâm talkinâ about you. Your form is better.
âYeah, thanks.
âYou look more natural in the boat and stronger, too.
âRight, yeah.
âBend at the waist just a little. Breathe in through your nose, out through â
âI know, I know. I work out. I can breathe. Iâm old but not that old. They say fifty is the new thirty but that would be eighty in hockey years.
âItâs true, though. This is a lot like home, itâs relaxinâ on the water and quiet without a motor.
âYou have the same birthday as my dead sister.
âHold up, Iâm cominâ back there. This fog will only last a few minutes. Letâs paddle alongside each other. That way, I can watch those wrists. Firm them up, no togglinâ.
âThe water goes so smooth when the fog comes in. Itâs like the cocktail partyâs over and weâre the only ones left in the messy quiet.
âExcept I donât drink.
âMe either.
âThat should help with your moods.
âWhat moods? Who told you that?
âItâs only tennis.
âA writer I like, a Canadian turned ultimate New Yorker who still believes hockey is the greatest game, says, âWe are optimists and look to sports to amplify our optimism.â
âItâs true. Thereâs always a way to play better, always a new season to feel good about before it starts. Always a way, a system, to overcome obstacles â injuries, mistakes, whatever. I think fans look at us and see that we persevere and we show them thereâs hope, even when spirit breaks, or your leg or elbow, even when a best friend is broken badly.
âNow, I know youâre a spiritual guy. Your dadâs a pastor, right?
âSort of.
âIngmar Bergmanâs father was, too. You knew that?
âLutheran, I think.
âRemind me to ask you about Bergman at some point.
âOh, ya, you bet.
âAnd I know you donât want to tell me about how faith works in your life, but it seems so much a part of your game and your life. Itâs too bad you donât want to share your wisdom and help us all to maybe get along better and be happier and decide whatâs holy and whatâs not.
âWell, Iâm a public figure but Iâm also private and so is my family.
âYes, but what is it about Christians that makes them so insider-ish? Itâs like they have a secret society and the rest of us donât get to come to the meetings. If itâs so great in there, why canât everybody come in, chug a cold beer and a Cheez Whiz sandwich, and then leave?
âYou donât have churches in the Strait of Juan de Fuca?
âHa. Iâm not talking
Similar Books
Tribe: The Red Hand (Tribe Series Book 1)
Kaelyn Ross
Mistress to the Prince
Elizabeth Lennox
![The 39 Clues [Cahills vs. Vespers] 05 - Trust No One](https://fs.readonlinefreepdf.com/452404/thumbs/152x264/the-39-clues-cahills-vs-vespers-05-trust-no-one.jpg)
The 39 Clues [Cahills vs. Vespers] 05 - Trust No One
Linda Sue Park
An Ordinary Epidemic
Amanda Hickie
The Soul Catcher
Alex Kava
Eight Minutes
Lori Reisenbichler
Unconventional Suitors 01 - Her Unconventional Suitor
Ginny Hartman
Red Delicious Death
Sheila Connolly
2 Crushed
Barbara Ellen Brink
Grimrose Path
Rob Thurman