You can't imagine how crazy I was about football when I was young. For years my life followed a(n) 1: I slipped out of the house, played football until dark and instantly I was infected with malaria. Football was so appealing that I was willing to 2 anything —injuries, punishment, and even sickness—to play it. Soon enough, my mother would rush me to the Sijuwade Hospital. There, the doctor said I needed to be 3 .
My dad often spent the night with me in the hospital while my mother 4 my sister at home. Then came the happiest 5 when my father told me wonderful stories.
My father was a(n) 6 storyteller. In the hospital, he would tell me a story or two, or, sometimes, if he was not too tired, many in response to my request. He 7 bicycle sounds and the howl of the wind so vividly that the pictures would never 8 from my mind. So happy were these moments that I sometimes wished to 9 my hospital stay.
Because of my mom's strict supervision, it became 10 difficult to steal out. No longer sick, no more stories. 11, I broke into my father's room one evening.
"Dad, you tell me stories only when I'm sick."
My father laughed, "You are already eight and can read by yourself!"
He 12 me a book and said, "Go and read that. It'll tell you stories."
I remember that night clearly. I opened the book and read what turned out to be the most 13 story that I had ever read.
What I discovered that night 14 my life. I became thirsty for books and became a voracious（求知欲强的）15 . I read in the mornings, at nights and in between. Through reading, I felt as though I were on the magical journey to the endless.
