The match is in full flow, 22 teenagers running around the frozen pitch, a few desperate to get the ball and some desperately hiding from it. To absolutely nobody’s surprise, we are 2-0 down after ten minutes. I’m not arsed about the score, though. It’s the ten minutes thing that’s doing my head in. 80 more bastard minutes of him. In actual fact, the match will be stopped and an ambulance frantically called before halftime, but who’s to know at this point?
‘Get up, son,’ my dad snarls, ‘Fuck’s sake, writhing about like a baby.’
I drag myself up off the floor and avoid the sympathetic glances of my teammates. They’ll probably talk about us behind my back later; their parents will give them demonstrative hugs or high-fives when the match finishes, trying to teach him by example because they’re too afraid to say anything to him. Leaves and twigs are my second worst enemy. They freeze into vindictive razors on the unthawed ground and ravage my exposed limbs. I’ll only really know the extent of the damage later, when I’m safe in the warm shower, my willy unshrivels, my balls creep warily out of their bodily refuge, and I can gingerly inspect the wounds I can see and bury those I can’t.
‘Tommy. Tommy! You’ve lost your man again.’
I don’t look at him, but it’s hard to ignore your dad when he’s screaming your name. I don’t look at him, but I know his arms are playing the game for me and he is a metre onto the pitch, the other parents looking on disapprovingly. I know spit is fleeing from his bitter mouth and his face is cruel with illogical rage. I know he’s keeping a mental list of my shortcomings for the twenty minute car rant back to his old house. A long ball comes towards me and I head it out for a throw-in.
‘Christ alive, what was that Tommy? Possession, son. Possession.’
The weak winter sun pops out, but my mood is getting darker. I don’t even like 11-a-side football. I’d rather just be kicking a ball about in the park with my mates. But it’s Saturday, and Saturday morning has been our court-ordered time, ever since vodka, his fists, and my mum’s nose got together. I don’t know why he insists on football or why I don’t refuse to play. It doesn’t make him happy. I reckon he just gets off on being angry. I’m angry too, now: an internal shame-fuelled jealous rage. Why can’t he be like the other parents, or at least be unlike himself? The ball comes down my wing and I cut it out before my opposite number can control it.
‘Jack. Jack! You need to run off him, man,’ screams a track-suited old skinhead from the away-team touchline. He’s standing directly opposite my dad. A mirror image of bile.
I realise from the way that the lad I’m marking studies the ground and bunches his fists, knuckles white, that he is the Jack in question. He’s a bit shorter than I am, stockier, but nippy still, and he keeps getting away from me.
‘Tommy, get tighter.’
‘Jack. Fucking look at me, son. You’ve got the legs on him.’
‘Got him in your pocket, Tommy. All day.’
They’re addressing us, but really they’re trying to rile each other now.
I’m right behind Jack and I whisper into his ear, ‘Don’t know who’s worse: yours or mine.’
He turns and gives me a rueful smile, ‘Twat thinks he should have gone pro ‘cos he had a trial once.’
‘Jack, stop flirting you fanny. What’s wrong with you? We’re playing away, not batting for the other team,’ he laughs nastily, thinking himself witty.
His words seem to land heavy and Jack’s smile is gone. A long ball goes behind us and we race after it down the wing. He gets the first touch, but then I slide in, nick the ball out for a throw, and clean him out.
‘Referee! Sort it out,’ Jack’s dad strides onto the pitch, arms waving wildly.
‘Nowt wrong with that, mate. Your lad’s just soft,’ shouts my dad. I’ve seen that face before; he’s eager for a scrap.
‘You what?’
I’m helping Jack to his feet, but staring over at them as they march towards each other. They’re done moving their pawns around and are ready to do battle. The referee is rooted to the spot and blowing his whistle impotently. The familiar feeling of shame swells inside me, but Jack is a ball of compressed rage. At first I think it’s because of the tackle, but he starts sprinting towards them. Jack’s dad throws a punch which my dad dodges, steps inside, and they begin to tussle. Seconds later, they’re both slipping on the thawing ground and falling over. It’s almost comical, these two past-its lying in the mud, but then it happens. Jack’s sprint has brought him to the scene and he boots his dad’s head as if it were a football. But footballs don’t crunch. Or bleed. Or snap back and cause people to wince and clench their eyes shut. He brings his foot back and kicks him in the head again. And again. I’m next to Jack now, but I don’t stop him, don’t even look at him. I’m staring down at my dad on the floor and he’s cowering up at me. Looks can’t kill but they can warn. For the first time I think, he clocks that I’m now taller than him, stronger. He sees my hate. He sees a part of himself in me and knows what I want to do. But I don’t. Jack breaks the spell by walking away from his unconscious dad with tears streaming down his face.
There’s no rant in the car home today. Just silence. And when next Saturday comes, I’ll be in the park with my mates and he’ll be who gives a fuck.
Image by Daniel Kirsch from Pixabay a battered football lying in a pile of autumn leaves.
