Chapter 3 three

three I got hurt against Cornell. To be honest, it's all my fault.The heat of the game was high, and I made the unfortunate mistake of calling their center forward a "Canadian bum."I neglected to forget that there were four Canadians in their team—later I realized that these four Canadians were not only physically strong, but also extremely patriotic, and all of them just happened to hear what I said.I was not injured, but also humiliated: the referee punished me.And the penalty was very unusual: intentionally hit someone, and he was sent off for five minutes!Once the decision was announced on the field, you should have come to hear how the Cornell fans taunted me!You must know that although this competition is a key battle for the championship of "Ivy United", there are not many Harvard cheerleaders who have rushed all the way to Izzy, New York.Five minutes to be fined!When I climbed into the "penalized player's bench", I saw our coach pulling his hair in anger.

1 Cornell University seat. Jackie Felt hurried over the fence.Only then did I realize that the right half of my face had been beaten to a bloody mess. "Oh, my God, my God," he sighed repeatedly while taking a "styptic pen" to stop the bleeding. "That sucks, Ollie." I sat silently, staring straight ahead.I didn't have the face to go to the rink, but my worst fears soon became reality on the rink: Cornell scored.Those fans in red yelled and cheered strangely.The field is now tied.Looking at this situation, the Cornell team is likely to win-you must know that winning this game means winning the "Ivy United" championship.Terrible! ——I'm only halfway through the five minutes of my penalty.

1 In the West, some of the most loyal fans often wear the same color as their favorite team and sit together as cheerleaders. On the other side of the ice rink, the weak Harvard cheerleaders were all frowning and silent.At this moment, the fans on both sides have already forgotten about me.Only one spectator is still staring at the "penalized player's bench".Yes, he is there. "If the meeting ends early, I'll try to make it to Cornell." Right in the middle of the Harvard cheerleaders sat Oliver Barrett Third—who, of course, wasn't shouting with the cheerleaders.

Across the chasm-like ice rink, the old stone-faced man silently watched the blood on his face without expression, and was finally stopped by the bandage.What do you think he was thinking at this time?Maybe secretly smacking his lips? ——Still whispering in your heart? "Oliver, if you like fighting so much, why don't you just join the boxing team?" "Exeter doesn't have a boxing team, papa." "Well, I'm afraid I shouldn't have come to your hockey game." "Do you think I'm fighting just to show you, Dad?" "Hey, it's not pretty."

But then again, who could know what was going on in his heart?Oliver Barrett II is just a walking and sometimes talking Mount Rushmore.Simply a stone face. 1 Mount Rushmore is in Black Ridge on the outskirts of Rapid, South Dakota, USA, where the rock walls are carved with giant heads of four American presidents, Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. The old stone-faced man may be bragging again at this moment: look at me, I'm one of the very few Harvard spectators who are here tonight.I, Oliver Barrett number three, a very busy guy with bank and stuff and all, made a point of going to Cornell to watch a lousy hockey game.Look how amazing this is. (The implication is: for whom?)

The audience roared again, this time it was really screaming desperately.Cornell scored another goal.They are ahead.But I still can't play, there are two minutes to suffer!I saw Davy Johnston, flushed and angry, sliding toward me.But he didn't even look at me, and rushed past me close to me.Am I right, are there really tears in his eyes?I mean, although the championship is at stake in this battle, it's not right to cry!But thinking about it again, it's no wonder that our captain, David, has always been an excellent player: in the past seven years, whether in middle school or college, he has never lost a game in all the games he participated in.It sounds like a little legend.What's more, he is a "senior" student this year.What's more, this ball is our last tough battle!

We finally lost the game 3-6. After the game, X-rays showed that I had no fractures, so Dr. Richard Seltzer sewed a dozen stitches on my face.Jackie Felt has been running around the infirmary, pestering this Cornell doctor about my diet, saying that if I take enough salt tablets, I won't get After suffering so much today, Dr. Seltzer ignored him, but gave me a serious warning, saying that I almost damaged the "fundus of the eye" (that is a medical term), and it is prudent to avoid it for a week. play ball.I thank him.He left, and Felt followed him, pinning him to talk about nutrition again.Well, now I'm alone.

I took the shower slowly, being careful not to let the water hit my bruised face.The anesthesia of Novocaine is starting to wear off, but strangely enough, I'd rather feel the pain.Because if you think about it, isn't the Lou Yu I stabbed today not too big?We lost the championship, everyone's good luck is gone (some of our "seniors" have never lost a game in four years), even Davy Johnston's good luck is over .Although the fault may not have been entirely mine, I felt at the time as if I was responsible for everything. There was no one in the locker room.Everyone must be in the motel by now.Probably none of them wanted to see me, and none of them wanted to talk to me.I endured the terribly bitter taste in my mouth—I was so sad that I even felt a bitter taste in my mouth—packed up my clothes, and went outside.The wilderness of upstate New York was bitterly cold and windy, and few Harvard fans lingered.

"Is your face badly hurt, Barrett?" "No problem, thank you, Mr Tonks." "I'm afraid you should have a steak," said another familiar voice.It was Oliver Barrett third who said this.It is really only he who can tell people to use this ancient prescription to cure swollen eyes. 1 refers to pasting a piece of raw steak on the swollen eye socket. "Thank you, Dad," I said. "The doctor has already treated it." I also pointed to the gauze pieces that Dr. Seltzer counted for me where the twelve stitches were placed. "I mean let you eat steak, boy."

At dinner we had another casual conversation, as usual.It's a perpetual cycle of conversations that starts with "How's your day?" and ends with "Can I help you?" "How have you been all this time, child?" "Very good, Dad." "Does your face hurt?" "It doesn't hurt, Dad." In fact, the wound was already excruciatingly painful. "I want Jack Wells to show you next Monday." "No need, Dad." "He's an expert—" "The school doctor at Cornell is not necessarily a veterinarian." I said this in order to kill my father's snobbishness that he only believed in "authority figures" such as experts and famous doctors.

"What a misfortune"--I heard Oliver Barrett III say this, and at first thought he was speaking humorously--"it's almost inhuman to see you so wounded. " "Yes, Dad." (Should I still be giggling?) But then think again; wasn't my father's lame quip an implicit reproach for my behavior on the rink today? "Perhaps you mean that I behaved like a beast tonight?" Judging from his expression, it seemed that my asking made him quite happy.But he just replied: "You were the one who mentioned the veterinarian." Having said that, I decided to immerse myself in the menu and stop messing around. After the main course was served, the old stone-faced man delivered another of his usual simplistic sermons, which, in retrospect (I don't like to think about it), this time he was talking about victory and defeat.He pointed out that we've lost the championship (you know that well, Dad), but ball game ball game, after all, it's not about winning, it's about playing.He sounded like he was explaining the purpose of the Olympic Games, and I realized that this was just the beginning, and then he was going to talk about his mere "Avery United" championship.But I didn't want him to turn the conversation to the Olympics, so I just gave him the necessary answer, "Yes, Dad," as a rule, and said nothing else. We hit the clichés all over the place, and the center was always that boring subject that the old stone-faced man was obsessed with: my future. "Tell me, Oliver, any news from the law school?" "Honestly, Dad, I haven't made a formal decision on whether to go to law school or not." "I'm just asking if the law school has made a formal decision to accept you." Is this another one-liner?Should I smile at my father's wonderful eloquence? "Not yet, Dad. No news yet." "I can give Price Zimmerman a call—" "Don't!" Without even thinking about it, I immediately interrupted him. "Please don't do that, Dad!" "Not to influence," said Oliver Barrett with a very upright look, "just to ask." "Dad, I want to receive the admission notice at the same time as everyone else. Please don't do this." "Yes, this is natural. That's fine." "Thank you, Dad." "Besides, you won't have much problem getting admitted," he added. I don't know why, but I always feel that Oliver Barrett's third compliment has a taste of accusing me. "Not necessarily," I replied, "they don't have a hockey team there after all." I also don't know why I should belittle myself like this.Maybe it's because I want to do the opposite on purpose. "You have other specialties," said Oliver Barrett third, without further elaboration. (I think he may not be able to speak up.) The food was as dull as the conversation, with one difference, and that was that the rolls I knew would be stale before they were served, whereas I never could have guessed what the subject of my father's nonchalant presentation would be. "Besides, we still have a Peace Corps 1 anyway," he said, which was a big surprise. 1. The Peace Corps is an organization established by the United States in the early 1960s and is affiliated with the State Department.The task is to send some "specially trained" Americans to developing countries to implement the US "aid plan". "What?" I wasn't sure if he was making an opinion or asking a question. "I think the Peace Corps are pretty good, don't you think?" he said. "Well," I replied, 'better than War Team, of course. " This time we were tied.I don't know his intentions, and he can't understand my thoughts.Is this what he wants to talk about?Then don't you have to talk about major events in the world or the government's program?No way.You see how I forgot for a moment: our most basic topic was always my future. "I'd never object to you joining the Peace Corps, Oliver." "I wouldn't object if you came, papa," I replied, as generously as he was.I knew that the old stone-faced man never listened to what I said anyway, so I wasn't surprised to see his lack of reaction to my little, not-so-obvious sarcasm. "But what about your schoolmates," he went on, "what do they think?" "how?" "Did they feel that starting the Peace Corps was a big event in their lives?" I think Dad needs to hear the words like a fish needs water: "Yes, Dad." Even the apple steak was stale. Around half past eleven, I took him to the car. "Can I help you with anything, kid?" "It's all right, Dad. Goodbye, Dad." He then drove away. Yes, there were plenty of flights between Boston and Ithaca, New York, but Oliver Barrett Third would rather drive his own car.It's not that I can show my heart by driving the car for several hours.My dad just loved driving.fly car.Especially at midnight like this, when you drive an Aston Martin DBS 1, the flying car is amazing.I could see that Oliver Barrett No. 3 was hell-bent on breaking his Ithaca-Boston speed record, which he had set the previous year after we beat Cornell for the title.I understood what he meant, because I saw him look at his watch. 1. An English car of the highest craftsmanship. I then went back to the motel and called Jenny. It was the only wonderful moment of the night.I told her all about the fight (except omitting what was the cause of it), and I figured it out: she listened with great interest.It's no wonder that her sour friends who read music rarely beat people, and not many get beaten. "The guy who picked you up, you should settle accounts with him?" she asked. "Forget it! Complete liquidation! Give him a terrible meal." "Too bad I didn't see it with my own eyes. When you play Yale, you're gonna beat some guy up anyway?" "Ok." I smile slightly.How she loved the little things in life.