litlover
10-04-2005, 06:16 PM
'Vincey.'
'Paddy.'
'Jimmy.'
'Sean.'
All the way down, until both teams were chosen and the game could begin. The ball belonged to Peter in No. 2 and when he wasn't available we had to ask nicely if we might borrow it. Sometimes Pete's mum had really bad headaches and would leave the ball inside the front door, which meant we didn't have to disturb her. Once, assigned as ball-getter, I heard her singing a slurred version of 'Danny Boy' and thought her headache must have eased. She seemed to sing quite a lot for a lady with headaches.
Vincey, first pick almost all of the time, was a lame boy whose Polio had left him with a stern outlook on life. I called at his house one day to find him lying full stretch on the kitchen floor. No one else was at home.
'What's the matter Vincey? Are you dyin'?'
'Nothin'. Sometimes I see things I know aren't real so I close my eyes and the pain goes away.'
'Like dreamin'?'
'Far better than a dream. I can make things happen.'
He lay on, eyes closed, rambling in a strange voice. I was frightened.
'Are you coming out or what?' I asked, not caring what the answer might be.
He opened one eye and sought my face. A smile crept across his lips.
'Can you see things?'
As a ten year old I was duty bound to consider the question, and answer truthfully.
'At night I sometimes think I float through my window in a basket.'
He sprung up, his broad hands splayed on the red lino.
'I knew it', he crowed, 'That's you an' me. The rest of 'em only think in black an' white.' He struggled slowly to his feet.
'Boy, I knew it. It's like we're sort of twins.'
I was impressed. He knew I had asthma. 'That's it!' I thought, 'Maybe all us sick boys can see one another's thoughts.' I didn't much care for his 'twins' comparison but made quick plans to get inside the thoughts of Doreen Bryce who lived in number six. She had broken her ankle the previous week and I regarded this as an opportunity to see if she liked me more than specky Sylvester who hung around her like a smell.
'Come on,' I said, fighting a growing panic at this secret power I had been granted, 'They're waitin' to pick the teams.'
He was always chosen first. Our chivalrous procedure was, I later discovered, way ahead of its time.
'Right Vincey. You're in goals and can come outfield a wee bit if you want.'
This arrangement suited all of us and worked most of the time. He dived and tossed himself about unnecessarily between the jumpered goals. As most scoring chances happened from little more than two yards, his acrobatics rarely prevented a goal but we praised him lavishly.
'Aw, bad luck.'
'Nice try, Vincey.'
Over time his prowess as goalkeeper did improve, and the team with him 'between the sticks' were more likely to win.
One day, full of boyish fair play, I decided that the teams required more equal distribution.
'Vincey, you play full back and we'll have Paddy in goals.'
Paddy was a bookish boy whom we suspected was only sent to play with us to disentangle him from the thick tomes he preferred.
The game started and by half time we were five goals in front. Our opposition's forwards complained that Vincey's enthusiasm and strange gait made it impossible to play against him.
'And we can't tackle him properly. He's all over the place an' we're afraid to knock him over.'
It was a fair point. Vincey at full tilt seemed to defy the laws of physics and gravity. His lopsided gait flummoxed the opposition, and us.
We huddled on the half way line. The same competitive urge which had impelled me to make Vincey a full back now persuaded me that the game would improve if he swapped with Paddy.
'I don't mind,' said the lugubrious Paddy.
'We're five up, anyway,' said Vincey, 'They won't get them back if I'm in goals.'
So we made the switch.
They beat us 10-7. Vincey let in eight goals in the second half while we scored none. As I collected my jumper which comprised one half of his goal he shrugged his shoulders and said,
'Sorry. Losing's my fault.'
I managed to bury my disappointment behind a lie,
'Nah. I think you were tired after the first half.'
He slung his jumper over his shoulder and limped away.
'Yeah. I'm tired alright,' he said.
'Paddy.'
'Jimmy.'
'Sean.'
All the way down, until both teams were chosen and the game could begin. The ball belonged to Peter in No. 2 and when he wasn't available we had to ask nicely if we might borrow it. Sometimes Pete's mum had really bad headaches and would leave the ball inside the front door, which meant we didn't have to disturb her. Once, assigned as ball-getter, I heard her singing a slurred version of 'Danny Boy' and thought her headache must have eased. She seemed to sing quite a lot for a lady with headaches.
Vincey, first pick almost all of the time, was a lame boy whose Polio had left him with a stern outlook on life. I called at his house one day to find him lying full stretch on the kitchen floor. No one else was at home.
'What's the matter Vincey? Are you dyin'?'
'Nothin'. Sometimes I see things I know aren't real so I close my eyes and the pain goes away.'
'Like dreamin'?'
'Far better than a dream. I can make things happen.'
He lay on, eyes closed, rambling in a strange voice. I was frightened.
'Are you coming out or what?' I asked, not caring what the answer might be.
He opened one eye and sought my face. A smile crept across his lips.
'Can you see things?'
As a ten year old I was duty bound to consider the question, and answer truthfully.
'At night I sometimes think I float through my window in a basket.'
He sprung up, his broad hands splayed on the red lino.
'I knew it', he crowed, 'That's you an' me. The rest of 'em only think in black an' white.' He struggled slowly to his feet.
'Boy, I knew it. It's like we're sort of twins.'
I was impressed. He knew I had asthma. 'That's it!' I thought, 'Maybe all us sick boys can see one another's thoughts.' I didn't much care for his 'twins' comparison but made quick plans to get inside the thoughts of Doreen Bryce who lived in number six. She had broken her ankle the previous week and I regarded this as an opportunity to see if she liked me more than specky Sylvester who hung around her like a smell.
'Come on,' I said, fighting a growing panic at this secret power I had been granted, 'They're waitin' to pick the teams.'
He was always chosen first. Our chivalrous procedure was, I later discovered, way ahead of its time.
'Right Vincey. You're in goals and can come outfield a wee bit if you want.'
This arrangement suited all of us and worked most of the time. He dived and tossed himself about unnecessarily between the jumpered goals. As most scoring chances happened from little more than two yards, his acrobatics rarely prevented a goal but we praised him lavishly.
'Aw, bad luck.'
'Nice try, Vincey.'
Over time his prowess as goalkeeper did improve, and the team with him 'between the sticks' were more likely to win.
One day, full of boyish fair play, I decided that the teams required more equal distribution.
'Vincey, you play full back and we'll have Paddy in goals.'
Paddy was a bookish boy whom we suspected was only sent to play with us to disentangle him from the thick tomes he preferred.
The game started and by half time we were five goals in front. Our opposition's forwards complained that Vincey's enthusiasm and strange gait made it impossible to play against him.
'And we can't tackle him properly. He's all over the place an' we're afraid to knock him over.'
It was a fair point. Vincey at full tilt seemed to defy the laws of physics and gravity. His lopsided gait flummoxed the opposition, and us.
We huddled on the half way line. The same competitive urge which had impelled me to make Vincey a full back now persuaded me that the game would improve if he swapped with Paddy.
'I don't mind,' said the lugubrious Paddy.
'We're five up, anyway,' said Vincey, 'They won't get them back if I'm in goals.'
So we made the switch.
They beat us 10-7. Vincey let in eight goals in the second half while we scored none. As I collected my jumper which comprised one half of his goal he shrugged his shoulders and said,
'Sorry. Losing's my fault.'
I managed to bury my disappointment behind a lie,
'Nah. I think you were tired after the first half.'
He slung his jumper over his shoulder and limped away.
'Yeah. I'm tired alright,' he said.