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" Fifth grade had just ended, and my parents were sending me to a week of sleepaway camp. My big brother had told me stories about his previous summers there. I&amp;#039;d waited years to witness the magic of ticks exploding in a campfire, and was beside myself with joy. Camp was everything I&amp;#039;d imagined and more. Not understanding the homesickness thing, I stuffed letters from Mom and Dad unread into my duffel bag. I had to attend to more important matters, like braiding the world&amp;#039;s longest lanyard. By the end of my week, I was resolute: Camp simply could not be over for me. I waited for my parents, hoping they wouldn&amp;#039;t be too mad about making the three-and-a-half-hour trip for nothing. I&amp;#039;d like to say my reaction was mature as they led me to the car. But I was 10, and suffering my first heartbreak. Having no concept of how another week of camp would strain family finances, I ranted at the unfairness. My mom didn&amp;#039;t see why I was so upset; she offered upbeat talk of next year&amp;#039;s session. My dad seemed to feel my pain. He stared straight ahead, looking sadder as the miles passed. My parents&amp;#039; opposite reactions likely stemmed from their backgrounds. Camp was a summer staple in Mom&amp;#039;s family, no big deal. Dad grew up in the south suburbs of Chicago \u2014 the kind of place where you married a girl from the neighborhood and moved in across the street from your parents. Going away for a week, much less to some camp in the woods, was, to his parents, no sane way to spend money.  Instead, he&amp;#039;d spent summers pursuing his boyhood passion \u2014 collecting baseball cards. And he never let go of a single one. For a guy who went to the office at 5 a.m. and returned every night in time for dinner, the cards must have been a precious reminder of the days when he played ball in the street and dreamed of lucking into the rarest Mickey Mantle rookie edition. In the same spirit, I dreamed of knotting macram\u00E9 owls and winning at color wars. Once home, I locked myself in my room and sobbed into my unpacked duffel bag. Dad knocked on my bedroom door a few hours later. When he invited me along to the collector&amp;#039;s shop, I figured it was just a pathetic attempt to get my mind off s&amp;#039;mores. He approached the counter with a dusty old box in his hands. I looked up from a rack of movie posters when the collector&amp;#039;s voice rose with excitement. He shoved a wad of bills into my father&amp;#039;s hands. Dad handed over something small and flat in a plastic sheath and put the lid back on his box. Then he turned and led me out of the shop with a smile. &amp;quot;Let&amp;#039;s go get ready for camp,&amp;quot; he said. It was the happiest moment of my young life.  The common wisdom is that you appreciate parental sacrifice only after you become a parent yourself. It first dawned on me that I owed my father a debt when I saw the prices of baseball collectibles rise above six figures on eBay. I&amp;#039;ve been afraid to ask him which Mickey card he sold that day. One thing I know for sure: When he went to bat for me, it was an unquestionable home run. Sascha Zuger is the author of Girl Overboard (under the pen name Aimee Ferris).  "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/inspirational-stories/a17380/blessings-sacrifice-play-0907/>