When I was growing up, I was embarrassed to be seen with my father. He was severely crippled(跛足)and very short, and when we walked together, he would put his hand on my arm for balance, people would stare. I would inwardly become uncomfortable at the unwanted attention. If he ever noticed or was bothered, he never revealed it. It was difficult to coordinate our steps — his limping, mine impatient — and because of that, we didn’t say much as we went along. But as we started out, he always said, “You set the pace. I will try to adjust to you.” Our usual walk was to or from the subway, which was how he got to work. He went to work sick, and despite nasty weather. He almost never missed a day, and would make it to the office even if others could not. A matter of pride. When snow or ice was on the ground, it was impossible for him to walk, even with help. At such times my sister and I would pull him through the streets of Brooklyn, N. Y., on a child’s sleigh (雪车) to the subway entrance. Once there he would cling to the handrail until he reached the lower steps that the warmer tunnel air kept ice-free. In Manhattan the subway station was the basement of his office building, and he would not have to go outside again until we met him in Brooklyn on his way home. When I think of it now, I marvel(惊异于)at how much courage it must have taken for a grown man to subject himself to such indignity and stress. And at how he did it — without bitterness or complaint. He never talked about himself as an object of pity, nor did he show any envy of the more fortunate or able. What he looked for in others was a “good heart”, and if he found one, the owner was good enough for him. Unable to engage in many activities, my father still tried to participate in some way. When the local sandlot baseball team found itself without a manager, he kept it going. He was a knowledgeable baseball fan and often took me to Ebbets Field to see the Brooklyn Dodgers play. He liked to go to dances and parties, where he could have a good time just sitting and watching. He had been gone many years now, but I think of him often. I wonder if he sensed my reluctance to be seen with him during our walks. If he did, I am sorry I never told him how sorry I was, how unworthy I was, how I regretted it. I think of him when I complain about tri­fles, when I am envious of another’s good fortune, and when I don’t have a “good heart”. At such times I put my hand on his arm to regain my balance, and say, “You set the pace. I will try to adjust to you.”