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ked again the way we just had。 Because the truth of it was； I always felt like Baba hated me a little。 And why not？ After all； I _had_ killed his beloved wife； his beautiful princess； hadn t I？ The least I could have done was to have had the decency to have turned out a little more like him。 But I hadn t turned out like him。 Not at all。
IN SCHOOL； we used to play a game called _Sherjangi_； or Battle of the Poems。 The Farsi teacher moderated it and it went something like this： You recited a verse from a poem and your opponent had sixty seconds to reply with a verse that began with the same letter that ended yours。 Everyone in my class wanted me on their team； because by the time I was eleven； I could recite dozens of verses from Khayyam； H~afez； or Rumi s famous _Masnawi_。 One time； I took on the whole class and won。 I told Baba about it later that night； but he just nodded； muttered； Good。
That was how I escaped my father s aloofness； in my dead mother s books。 That and Hassan； of course。 I read everything； Rumi； H~afez； Saadi； Victor Hugo； Jules Verne； Mark Twain； Ian Fleming。 When I had finished my mother s books……not the
boring history ones； I was never much into those； but the novels； the epics……I started spending my allowance on books。 I bought one a week from the bookstore near Cinema Park； and stored them in cardboard boxes when I ran out of shelf room。
Of course； marrying a poet was one thing； but fathering a son who preferred burying his face in poetry books to hunting。。。 well； that wasn t how Baba had envisioned it； I suppose。 Real men didn t read poetry……and God forbid they should ever write it！ Real men……real boys……played soccer just as Baba had when he had been young。 Now _that_ was something to be passionate about。 In 1970； Baba took a break from the construction of the orphanage and flew to Tehran for a month to watch the World Cup games on television； since at the time Afghanistan didn t have TVs yet。 He signed me up for soccer teams to stir the same passion in me。 But I was pathetic； a blundering liability to my own team； always in the way of an opportune pass or unwittingly blocking an open lane。 I shambled about the field on scraggy legs； squalled for passes that never came my way。 And the harder I tried； waving my arms over my head frantically and screeching； I m open！ I m open！ the more I went ignored。 But Baba wouldn t give up。 When it became abundantly clear that I hadn t inherited a shred of his athletic talents； he settled for trying to turn me into a passionate spectator。 Certainly I could manage that； couldn t I？ I faked interest for as long as possible。 I cheered with him when Kabul s team scored against Kandahar and yelped insults at the referee when he called a penalty against our team。 But Baba sensed my lack of genuine interest and resigned himself to the bleak fact that his son was never going to either play or watch soccer。
I remember one time Baba took me to the yearly _Buzkashi_ tournament that took place on the first day of spring； New Year s Day。 Buzkashi was； and still is； Afghanistan s national passion。 A _chapandaz