Alan made his way alongside the slowly moving traffic, head bowed, shoulders hunched, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He stared straight ahead, his brow furrowed, grey mackintosh stretched across his gaunt, broad shoulders, sleeves failing to cover the length of his long arms.
Sitting in the front passenger seat of the car, James listened to the drone of the windscreen wipers; Monday morning meant PE first thing; football out on the cold, damp playing field. He thought of the long minutes he would spend in defence, waiting for the hard wet ball to come his way. He curled himself tighter into the seat and allowed the warm air from the heater to blow over him. The car pulled up outside the school and James reluctantly joined the stream of grey uniformed students as they entered the gates. Cars pulled up and doors slammed as more children made their way towards the fluorescently lit classrooms, concrete stairs and echoey corridors.
Alan turned his stare in the direction of the school. A faint ripple of recognition and sadness passed through him, raising itself above the inner tumult that filled his consciousness. Walking kept the tumult from overpowering him. The noise and movement of the traffic was a distraction that gave him some relief. Alan returned his eyes to the road.
Out on the playing field, James stood near the goal, looking down the pitch to where he thought he could see the ball. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. A group of players were running down the right side of the field, boots squelching in the soft mud. James moved his arms away from his sides as he readied himself. He felt his pulse surge up from his chest, throbbing in his ears. Trembling, he lurched into the path of the striker, arms flailing, legs stabbing at the ball. A dull explosion of pain filled his head, fizzing down into his nose.
James got to his feet; he put his hand up to his mouth, the metallic taste of blood spread across his tongue. He looked behind him. The goalkeeper stood motionless at the other end of the field. He looked back towards the players, jostling at the goalmouth. He looked at the blood on his hand. A sob gathered itself inside him. He forced it down, swallowing blood and saliva. James jogged slowly towards the other players, wiping tears away with his sleeve.
Alan turned his head in the direction of the shouts. He stopped walking and looked at the players. He moved closer to the fence. The runners were moving closer. A faint tingling spread through him and with his arms still tight across his chest, his legs began to move. Some of the boys were not running with the others. They probably didn’t know how to run. He knew how to run. The other boys were running. They loved to run like he did.
James jogged towards the other players as pain gave way to nausea. He stared back at the man looking at him from the other side of the fence, recognising him from his journey to school that morning. Feeling uneasy James increased his pace. He moved in amongst the players away from the man’s view.
“Heads up!”
The ball flew towards him. James raised his hands instinctively. Cries of disbelief met his ears. A shout went up from the opposition.
“Hand ball!”
One of James’ teammates glared at him.
“You idiot!”
The ball slammed into the back of his head. James sprawled forward; the wet mud cold against his skin. He didn’t care anymore. The sobs enveloped him, shutting out the trampling boots and muddy legs, wrapping him in the loneliness and isolation he had tried so hard to shut out.
The PE teacher shouldered his way through the muddy shirts.
“Who was it?”
Crouching next to James he continued at the same volume.
“Come on son, you’re alright. Get up”
James crawled slowly to his feet.
“Someone take him back to the changing rooms.
He pointed at one of the boys.
“You, go with him”
The boy’s shoulders slumped.
“Ah, no way sir. I’ll miss the penalty”
The PE teacher ignored him.
“Right, come on. Give me the ball. Team B form a wall. You know the drill”
Not wanting any more attention, James moved behind two of his teammates waiting at the goalmouth. He shot a glance in the direction of the fence where Alan stood motionless.
"Yesssss!"
Team A surged jubilantly back up the pitch, all high-fives and arms round necks. Team B jogged dejectedly towards the centre.
"Yes sir, can I help you?"
The PE teacher walked towards where Alan was standing. Alan turned slowly away from the fence, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His head sank into its customary position and he walked reluctantly away. The PE teacher broke into a jog as he made his way toward the players.
"Right lads, five more minutes. Lets see some action!"
The school bell's shrill ring jarred the grey stillness of the afternoon signalling the routine surge and jostle of grey uniforms towards the school gates. James made his way into the street. The faint taste of blood lingered in his mouth, a reminder of how much he hated football and how glad he was that it was only once a week he had to endure the taunts and humiliation. School children on bicycles raced down the road, groups moved unhurriedly along the pavement, exchanging boisterous conversation, passing James as we made his way thoughtfully towards home.
“Hand ball!”
One of James’ teammates glared at him.
“You idiot!”
The ball slammed into the back of his head. James sprawled forward; the wet mud cold against his skin. He didn’t care anymore. The sobs enveloped him, shutting out the trampling boots and muddy legs, wrapping him in the loneliness and isolation he had tried so hard to shut out.
The PE teacher shouldered his way through the muddy shirts.
“Who was it?”
Crouching next to James he continued at the same volume.
“Come on son, you’re alright. Get up”
James crawled slowly to his feet.
“Someone take him back to the changing rooms.
He pointed at one of the boys.
“You, go with him”
The boy’s shoulders slumped.
“Ah, no way sir. I’ll miss the penalty”
The PE teacher ignored him.
“Right, come on. Give me the ball. Team B form a wall. You know the drill”
Not wanting any more attention, James moved behind two of his teammates waiting at the goalmouth. He shot a glance in the direction of the fence where Alan stood motionless.
"Yesssss!"
Team A surged jubilantly back up the pitch, all high-fives and arms round necks. Team B jogged dejectedly towards the centre.
"Yes sir, can I help you?"
The PE teacher walked towards where Alan was standing. Alan turned slowly away from the fence, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His head sank into its customary position and he walked reluctantly away. The PE teacher broke into a jog as he made his way toward the players.
"Right lads, five more minutes. Lets see some action!"
The school bell's shrill ring jarred the grey stillness of the afternoon signalling the routine surge and jostle of grey uniforms towards the school gates. James made his way into the street. The faint taste of blood lingered in his mouth, a reminder of how much he hated football and how glad he was that it was only once a week he had to endure the taunts and humiliation. School children on bicycles raced down the road, groups moved unhurriedly along the pavement, exchanging boisterous conversation, passing James as we made his way thoughtfully towards home.
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