<html><head></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 25px; ">Post time</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 25px; "><br></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 25px; ">What my father loved about the track —</span><div class="interactive-graphic" style="margin-bottom: 10px; "><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.4375rem; ">time compressed into three-minute segments,<br>the idea of someone losing his shirt<br>or a few bucks, or winning big …<br><br>He loved the last-minute window,<br>gamblers tense to place the last winning bet,<br>and all the losing tickets he stepped on<br>walking to the boy who ran to get his car.<br><br>Once, at ten, sleepless, I carried to his room<br>some nameless fear I wanted him to soothe.<br>He told me his secret: to lie on one side<br>and concentrate to keep away the dread.<br><br>I used to think only of my father’s anger.<br>Now I think of his loneliness.</p><div> - Robin Becker</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span></div></div></div></body></html>