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Her mom loves a man who loves a place that loves a game.
He doesn’t want possessions. He just wants to lie in bed one single night without having to count.
Fatima remembers how odd she thought it when the club’s coaches first told her that Amat had exceptional talent. She only understood snippets of the language back then, and the fact that Amat could skate when he could barely walk was a divine mystery to her. Many years have passed since then, and she still hasn’t gotten used to the cold in Beartown, but she has learned to love the town for what it is. And she will never find anything in her life more unfathomable than the fact that the boy she gave birth to in a place that has never seen snow was born to play a sport on ice.
His mom and Benji’s three older sisters only slip into the old language when they want to express great anger or eternal love, and this country simply doesn’t have sufficiently flexible grammar to express which good-for-nothing part of the laziest useless donkey Benji might be, or how they love him as deeply as ten thousand wells full of gold.
Sports creates complicated men, proud enough to refuse to admit their mistakes, but humble enough always to put their team first.
At night Kira still goes around the house, counting their children. One, two, three. Two in their beds. One in heaven.
word. Bobo is the largest player on the team, but when he sits down he is the smallest player on the bench.
One of all the terrible effects of grief is that we interpret its absence as egotism.
