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+
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt">アルカディア翻訳会十二月例会英文和訳課題              井本</div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt"> </div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt">(1)から(4)の区切り部分([])の和訳お願いします。</div>
+<div style="text-justify: inter-ideograph; margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt">
+ 日時:<span>12月16日(日)14:00—17:00</span></div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt; text-indent: 12pt">会場:渋谷区立大向区民会館 会議室2号</div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt"><a href=
+"http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&amp;EAN=9780312347499&amp;itm=1">
+<font color=
+"#000080">http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&amp;EAN=9780312347499&amp;itm=1</font></a></div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt"> </div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt"><strong>Killer Instinct by Joseph
+Finder</strong></div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt">Chapter 1</div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt"> </div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 0pt">Okay, so I'm an idiot.<br>
+<br>
+(1) [Acura went into a ditch because I was trying to do too many things at
+once. Radiohead's "The Bends" was playing, loud, while I was driving home, too
+fast, since I was late as usual. Left hand on the wheel, while with my right
+hand I was thumbing my BlackBerry for e-mails, hoping I'd finally nailed a deal
+with a huge new customer. Most of the e-mails were blowback from the departure
+of our divisional vice president, Crawford, who'd just jumped ship to Sony.]
+Then my cell phone rang. I dropped the BlackBerry on the car seat and grabbed
+the cell.<br>
+<br>
+I knew from the ring that it was my wife, Kate, so I didn't bother to turn down
+the music--I figured she was just calling to find out when I'd be home from
+work so she could get dinner ready. She'd been on a tofu kick the last few
+months--tofu and brown rice and kale, stuff like that. It had to be really good
+for you, since it tasted so bad. But I'd never tell her so.<br>
+<br>
+That wasn't why she was calling, though. I could tell right away from Kate's
+voice that she'd been crying, and even before she said anything I knew why.<br>
+<br>
+"DiMarco called," she said. DiMarco was our doctor at Boston IVF who'd been
+trying to get Kate pregnant for the last two years or so. I didn't have high
+hopes,plus I didn't personally know anyone who'd ever made a baby in a test
+tube, so I was dubious about the whole process. I figured high tech should be
+for flat-screen plasma monitors, not making babies. Even so, it felt like I'd
+been punched in the stomach.<br>
+<br>
+But the worst thing was what it would do to Kate. She was crazy enough these
+days from the hormone injections. This would send her over the edge.<br>
+<br>
+"I'm really sorry," I said.<br>
+<br>
+"They're not going to let us keep trying forever, you know," she said. "All
+they care about is their numbers, and we're bringing them down."<br>
+<br>
+"Katie, it's only our third try with the IVF stuff. It's like a ten percent
+chance or something per cycle anyway, right? We'll keep at it, babe. That's
+all."<br>
+<br>
+"The point is, what are we going to do if this doesn't work?" Kate's voice got
+all high and choked, made my heart squeeze. "Go to California, do the donor egg
+thing? I can't go through that. Adopt? Jason, I can barely hear you."<br>
+<br>
+Adoption was fine with me. Or not. But I'm not totally clueless, so instead I
+focused on turning down the music. There's some little button on the steering
+wheel that I've never figured out how to use, so with the thumb of my driving
+hand I started pushing buttons, but instead the volume increased until
+Radiohead was blaring.<br>
+<br>
+"Kate," I said, but just then I realized that the car had veered onto the
+shoulder and then off the road. I dropped the phone, grabbed the wheel with
+both hands, cut it hard, but too late.<br>
+<br>
+There was a loud ka-chunk. I spun the steering wheel, slammed on the
+brakes.<br>
+<br>
+A sickening metallic crunch. I was jolted forward, thrown against the wheel,
+then backwards. Suddenly the car was canting all the way down to one side. The
+engine was racing, the wheels spinning in midair.<br>
+<br>
+(2) [I knew right away I wasn't hurt seriously, but I might have bruised a
+couple of ribs slightly. It's funny: I immediately started thinking of those
+old black-and-white driver-ed shock movies they used to show in the fifties and
+sixties with lurid titles like The Last Prom and Mechanized Death, from the
+days when all cops had crew cuts and wore huge-brimmed Canadian Mountie hats. A
+guy in my college frat had a videotape of these educational snuff flicks.
+Watching them could scare the bejeezus out of you. I couldn't believe anyone
+learning to drive back then could see The Last Prom and still be willing to get
+behind the wheel.]<br>
+<br>
+I turned the key, shut off the music, and sat there for a couple of seconds in
+silence before I picked the cell phone off the floor of the car to call Triple
+A.<br>
+<br>
+But the line was still open, and I could hear Kate screaming.<br>
+<br>
+"Hey," I said.<br>
+<br>
+"Jason, are you all right?" She was freaking out. "What happened?"<br>
+<br>
+"I'm fine, babe."<br>
+<br>
+"Jason, my God, did you get in an accident?"<br>
+<br>
+"Don't worry about it, sweetheart. I'm totally--I'm fine. Everything's cool.
+Don't worry about it."<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+(3)[Forty-five minutes later a tow truck pulled up, a bright red truck, m.e.
+walsh tow painted on the side panel. The driver walked over to me, holding a
+metal clipboard. He was a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a scruffy goatee,
+wearing a bandana on his head knotted at the back and long gray-flecked brown
+hair in a kind of mullet. He was wearing a black leather Harley-Davidson
+jacket.]<br>
+<br>
+"Well, that sucks," the dude said.<br>
+<br>
+"Thanks for coming," I said.<br>
+<br>
+"No worries," Harley said. "Let me guess. You were talking on your cell
+phone."<br>
+<br>
+I blinked, hesitated for a microsecond before I said sheepishly, "Yeah."<br>
+<br>
+"Damn things are a menace."<br>
+<br>
+(4) ["Yeah, totally," I said. Like I could survive without my cell phone. But
+he didn't exactly seem to be a cell phone kind of guy. He drove a tow truck and
+a motorcycle. Probably had a CB radio in there along with his Red Man chewing
+tobacco and Allman Brothers CDs. And a roll of toilet paper in the glove
+compartment. Kind of guy who mows his lawn and finds a car. Who thinks the last
+four words of the national anthem are "Gentlemen, start your engines."]<br>
+<br>
+"You okay?" he said.<br>
+<br>
+"Yeah, I'm good."<br>
+<br>
+He backed the truck around to my car, lowered the bed, hooked the winch up to
+the Acura. He switched on the electric pulley thing and started hauling my car
+out of the ditch. Fortunately, we were on a fairly deserted stretch of road--I
+always take this shortcut from the office in Framingham to the Mass Pike--so
+there weren't too many cars whizzing by. I noticed the truck had a yellow
+"Support Our Troops" ribbon sticker on one side and one of those
+black-and-white POW/MIA stickers on the windshield. I made a mental note to
+myself not to criticize the war in Iraq unless I wanted to get my larynx
+crushed by the guy's bare hands.<br>
+<br>
+"Climb in," he said.<br>
+<br>
+The cab of the truck smelled like stale cigar smoke and gasoline. A Special
+Forces decal on the dashboard. I was starting to get real warm and fuzzy
+feelings about the war.<br>
+<br>
+"You got a body shop you like?" he said. I could barely hear him over the
+hydraulic whine of the truck bed mechanism.<br>
+<br>
+I had a serious gearhead friend who'd know, but I couldn't tell a carburetor
+from a caribou. "I don't get into accidents too often," I said.<br>
+<br>
+"Well, you don't look like the kinda guy gets under the hood and changes the
+oil himself," Harley said. "There's a body shop I know," he said. "Not too far
+from here. We're good to go."<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+We mostly sat there in silence while he drove. I made a couple of attempts to
+get a conversation started with Harley, but it was like striking a wet
+match.<br>
+<br>
+Normally I could talk to anyone about anything--you name it, sports, kids,
+dogs, TV shows, whatever. I was a sales manager for one of the biggest
+electronics companies in the world, up there with Sony and Panasonic. The
+division I work for makes those big beautiful flat-panel LCD and plasma TVs and
+monitors that so many people lust after. Very cool products. And I've found
+that the really good sales reps, the ones who have the juice, can start a
+conversation with anybody. That's me.<br>
+<br>
+But this guy didn't want to talk, and after a while I gave up. I was kind of
+uncomfortable sitting there in the front seat of a tow truck being chauffeured
+around by a Hells Angel, me in my expensive charcoal suit, trying to avoid the
+chewing gum, or tar, or whatever the hell it was stuck on the vinyl upholstery.
+I felt my rib cage, satisfied myself that nothing had broken. Not even all that
+painful, actually.<br>
+<br>
+I found myself staring at the collection of stickers on the dashboard--the
+Special Forces decal, a "These Colors Don't Run" flag decal, another one that
+said "Special Forces--I'm the Man Your Mother Warned You About." After a while,
+I said, "This your truck?"<br>
+<br>
+"Nah, my buddy owns the towing company and I help out sometimes."<br>
+<br>
+Guy was getting chatty. I said, "He Special Forces?"<br>
+<br>
+A long silence. I didn't know, were you not supposed to ask somebody if they
+were in the Special Forces or something? Like, he could tell me, but then he'd
+have to kill me?<br>
+<br>
+I was about to repeat the question when he said, "We both were."<br>
+<br>
+"Huh," I said, and we both went quiet again. He switched on the ball game. The
+Red Sox were playing the Seattle Mariners at Fenway Park, and it was a tight,
+hard-fought, low-scoring game, pretty exciting. I love listening to baseball on
+the radio. I have a huge flat-panel TV at home, which I got on the
+friends-and-family discount at work, and baseball in high-definition is
+awesome. But there's nothing like a ball game on the radio--the crack of the
+bat, the rustling crowd, even the stupid ads for auto glass. It's classic. The
+announcers sound exactly the way they did when I was a kid, and probably sound
+the same as when my late father was a kid. Their flat, nasal voices are like an
+old pair of sneakers, comfortable and familiar and broken-in. They use all the
+well-worn phrases like "high--fly--ball!" and "runners at the corners" and
+"swing and a miss." I like the way they suddenly get loud and frenzied,
+shouting things like, "Way back! Way back!"<br>
+<br>
+One of the announcers was commenting about the Sox pitcher, saying, ". . . but
+even at the top of his game, he's never going to come close to the fastest
+recorded pitch speed of one hundred point nine miles an hour, thrown by . . . ?
+Jerry, you must know that one."<br>
+<br>
+And the other guy said, "Nolan Ryan."<br>
+<br>
+"Nolan Ryan," the first guy said, "very good. Clocked at Anaheim Stadium,
+August the twentieth, nineteen-seventy-four." Probably reading off the
+prompter, some research fed him by a producer.<br>
+<br>
+I said, "Wrong."<br>
+<br>
+The driver turned to me. "Huh?"<br>
+<br>
+I said, "These guys don't know what they're talking about. The fastest recorded
+pitch was Mark Wohlers."<br>
+<br>
+"Very good," Harley said, nodding. "Mark Wohlers. Hundred and three."<br>
+<br>
+"Right," I said, surprised. "Hundred and three miles per hour, in
+nineteen-ninety-five."<br>
+<br>
+"Atlanta Braves spring training." Then he smiled, an easy grin, his teeth even
+and white. "Didn't think anyone else knew that," he said.<br>
+<br>
+"Of course, the fastest pitcher ever, not in the major leagues--"<br>
+<br>
+"Steve Dalkowski," said Harley. "Hundred and ten miles an hour."<br>
+<br>
+"Shattered an umpire's mask," I said, nodding. "So were you a baseball geek
+when you were a kid, too? Collection of thousands of baseball cards?"<br>
+<br>
+He smiled again. "You got it. Those Topps gum packs with that crappy stale
+bubble gum inside."<br>
+<br>
+"That always stained one of the cards in the pack, right?"<br>
+<br>
+He chuckled.<br>
+<br>
+"Your dad take you to Fenway a lot?" I said.<br>
+<br>
+"I didn't grow up around here," he said. "Michigan. And my dad wasn't around.
+Plus we couldn't afford to go to games."<br>
+<br>
+"We couldn't either," I said. "So I listened to games on the radio a lot."<br>
+<br>
+"Same here."<br>
+<br>
+"Played baseball in the backyard?" I said. "Break a lot of windows?"<br>
+<br>
+"We didn't have a backyard."<br>
+<br>
+"Me neither. My friends and I played in a park down the street."<br>
+<br>
+He nodded, smiled.<br>
+<br>
+I felt like I knew the guy. We came from the same background, probably--no
+money, no backyard, the whole deal. Only I went to college and was sitting here
+in a suit, and he'd gone into the army like a lot of my high school buddies
+did.<br>
+<br>
+We listened to the game for a bit. Seattle's designated hitter was up. He swung
+at the first pitch. You could hear the crack of the bat. "And there's a high
+fly ball hit deep to left field!" one of the announcers crowed. It was headed
+right for the glove of a great Red Sox slugger, who also happened to be a
+famously clumsy outfielder. And a space cadet who did things like disappear
+from left field, right in the middle of a game, to take a leak. When he wasn't
+bobbling the ball.<br>
+<br>
+"He's got it," said the announcer. "It's headed right for his glove."<br>
+<br>
+"He's going to drop it," I said.<br>
+<br>
+Harley laughed. "You said it."<br>
+<br>
+"Here it comes," I said.<br>
+<br>
+Harley laughed even louder. "This is painful," he said.<br>
+<br>
+A roar of disappointment in the ballpark. "The ball hit the back of the glove,"
+said the announcer, "as he tried to slide to make the play. This is a
+major-league error right here."<br>
+<br>
+We groaned simultaneously.<br>
+<br>
+Harley switched it off. "I can't take it anymore," he said.<br>
+<br>
+"Thank you," I said, as we pulled into the auto body shop parking lot.<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+It was a kind of scuzzy place that looked like a converted gas station. Willkie
+Auto Body, the sign said. The manager on duty was named Abdul and probably
+wouldn't have an easy time getting through airport security these days. I
+thought Harley would start off-loading the carcass of my poor Acura, but
+instead he came into the waiting room and watched Abdul take down my insurance
+information. I noticed another "Support Our Troops" sticker on the wall in
+here, too, and a Special Forces decal.<br>
+<br>
+Harley said, "Jeremiah at home?"<br>
+<br>
+"Oh, yeah," said Abdul. "Sure. Home with the kids."<br>
+<br>
+"This is a friend of mine," he said. "Make sure you guys take care of him."<br>
+<br>
+I looked around and realized the tow truck driver was talking about me.<br>
+<br>
+"Of course, Kurt," Abdul said.<br>
+<br>
+"Tell Jerry I was here," Harley said.<br>
+<br>
+I read an old copy of Maxim while the tow truck driver and Abdul walked back to
+the shop. They returned a couple of minutes later.<br>
+<br>
+"Abdul's going to put his best master tech on your car," Harley said. "They do
+good work here. Computerized paint-mixing system. Nice clean shop. Why don't
+you guys finish up the paperwork, and I'll get the car in the service bay."<br>
+<br>
+"Thanks, man," I said.<br>
+<br>
+"Okay, Kurt, see you," said Abdul.<br>
+<br>
+I came out a few minutes later and saw Harley sitting in his tow truck, engine
+idling, listening to the game.<br>
+<br>
+"Hey," he said, "where do you live? I'll drop you off."<br>
+<br>
+"It's pretty far. Belmont."<br>
+<br>
+"Grab your stuff out of the car and jump in."<br>
+<br>
+"You don't mind?"<br>
+<br>
+"I get paid by the hour, buddy. Not by the job."<br>
+<br>
+I got my CDs off the floor of the car and my briefcase and baseball glove off
+the backseat.<br>
+<br>
+"You used to work in a body shop?" I said when I'd gotten back into the
+truck.<br>
+<br>
+The walkie-talkie started blaring, and he switched it off. "I've done
+everything."<br>
+<br>
+"How do you like towing?"<br>
+<br>
+He turned and gave me an Are you out of your mind? look. "I take whatever work
+I can get."<br>
+<br>
+"People don't like to hire soldiers anymore?"<br>
+<br>
+"People love to hire soldiers," he said. "Just not ones with DDs."<br>
+<br>
+"What's a DD?"<br>
+<br>
+"Dishonorable discharge. You gotta put it down on the application, and as soon
+as they see that, you're out the door."<br>
+<br>
+"Oh," I said. "Sorry I asked. None of my business."<br>
+<br>
+"No big deal. It just pisses me off. You get a DD, you don't get any VA
+benefits or pension. Sucks big-time."<br>
+<br>
+"How'd it happen?" I said. "If you don't mind my asking."<br>
+<br>
+Another long silence. He hit the turn signal, changed lanes. "Nah, I don't
+mind." He paused again, and I wasn't sure he was going to answer. Then he said:
+"The CO of my Special Forces A-team ordered half of us to go on this suicide
+mission, this broke-dick reconnaissance mission in Tikrit. I told the CO there
+was a ninety-nine percent chance they'd get ambushed, and guess what? The guys
+got ambushed. Attacked with rocket-propelled grenades. And my buddy Jimmy
+Donadio was killed."<br>
+<br>
+He fell silent. Stared straight ahead at the road as he drove. Then: "A good
+kid, just about finished with his tour, had a baby he'd never even seen. I
+loved that guy. So I just lost it. Went after the CO--head-butted the bastard.
+Broke his nose."<br>
+<br>
+"Wow," I said. "Jesus. I can't blame you. So you got court-martialed or
+something?"<br>
+<br>
+He shrugged. "I'm lucky they didn't send me to Leavenworth. But nobody in the
+command wanted to draw any attention to what went down that night, and they
+sure as hell didn't want CID looking into it. Bad for army morale. More
+important, bad PR. So the deal was, dishonorable discharge, no time."<br>
+<br>
+"Wow," I said again. I wasn't sure what CID was, but I wasn't going to ask.<br>
+<br>
+"So are you, like, a lawyer or something?"<br>
+<br>
+"Salesman."<br>
+<br>
+"Where?"<br>
+<br>
+"Entronics. In Framingham."<br>
+<br>
+"Cool. Can you get me a deal on a plasma TV?"<br>
+<br>
+I hesitated. "I don't sell the consumer line, but I might be able to do
+something."<br>
+<br>
+He smiled. "I'm kidding. I couldn't afford one of those anyway, even wholesale.
+So, I noticed the glove you got back there. Sweet. Rawlings Gold Glove, Heart
+of the Hide. Same as the pros use. Looks brand-new. Right out of the box. Just
+get it?"<br>
+<br>
+"Um, about two years," I said. "Gift from my wife."<br>
+<br>
+"Oh. You play?"<br>
+<br>
+"Not much. Mostly on my company's team. Softball, not baseball, but my wife
+didn't know the difference." Our team sucked. We were on a losing streak that
+resembled the Baltimore Orioles' historically pathetic 1988 season. "You
+play?"<br>
+<br>
+He shrugged. "Used to."<br>
+<br>
+A long beat of silence.<br>
+<br>
+"In school or something?" I said.<br>
+<br>
+"Got drafted by the Detroit Tigers, but never signed."<br>
+<br>
+"Seriously?"<br>
+<br>
+"My pitch speed was clocked at ninety-four, ninety-five miles an hour."<br>
+<br>
+"No way. Jesus!" I turned to look at him.<br>
+<br>
+"But that wasn't where my head was, at that point. Enlisted instead. I'm Kurt,
+by the way." He took his right hand off the wheel and gave me a firm handshake.
+"Kurt Semko."<br>
+<br>
+"Jason Steadman."<br>
+<br>
+There was another long silence, and then I had an idea.<br>
+<br>
+"We could use a pitcher," I said.<br>
+<br>
+"Who?"<br>
+<br>
+"My company's team. We've got a game tomorrow night, and we sure could use a
+decent pitcher. How would you like to play on our team tomorrow?"<br>
+<br>
+Another long pause. Then: "Don't you have to work for the company?"<br>
+<br>
+"Guys we play have no idea who works for us and who doesn't."<br>
+<br>
+Kurt went quiet again.<br>
+<br>
+After a minute, I said, "So what do you think?"<br>
+<br>
+He shrugged. "I don't know." He was staring at the road, a half smile on his
+face.<br>
+<br>
+At the time it seemed like a fun idea.<br>
+<br>
+Copyright © 2006 by Joseph Finder</div>
+<div style="margin: 0mm 0mm 6pt"><br>
+<br>
+<em>Continues...</em></div>