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NO-ONE SPOKE ON THE ride home. I felt like crap. There was no “debrief” back at our home turf, at least not one I attended. The cars got back at different times, mine was first, so I took five steps to my bike and beat it. Must have biked around for hours, trying to calm down. Ended up down at the mall in another bookshop gazing at art books until this up-tight shop assistant came up and said “This isn’t a library, you know!”
Then it clicked: Library! I went straight to my local library and checked out the art section. It was fabulous! I borrowed three, 'Art Workshop with Paul Taggart', 'The Impressionists', and 'Making Colour Sing'. They wouldn’t fit in my bag along with Dad’s muddy boots so I took out the boots and tied them onto my handle bars.
I got home at 1:45. Mum started asking tricky questions. I told a few fibs, got some lunch, disappeared off to my bedroom and disappeared into those books.
By five-thirty I was feeling more than ever like doing those art classes on Thursday nights rather than soccer practice. Tea-time was called. Reluctantly I put down Art Workshop and mooched on out to the dining room.
“How was the game today, Jamie?” asked Dad just about straight off.
“Mm, okay, I guess.”
“Holloway Valley, wasn’t it?” said Luke from the side.
“Yuh.”
“So, did you win?”
“No.” I tried to play it down, “Close game though: four-three.”
“You keeping those boots clean?” asked Dad, “And Dubbined?” (Dubbin was this greasy leather softener stuff that I had to smear on them every week.) I mumbled something vague, like I had my mouth full and was just trying to be polite. “Well?” asked Dad after it looked like I’d completely finished.
“Yuh.” I answered. It was half-true. I’d done them once.
Suddenly he went berko, slapping the table loudly and yelling, “Then why are they still hanging on your bike then?!”
I sat up suddenly, like I’d suddenly remembered them. It was true. I had suddenly remembered them. I’d plumb forgot because I’d just wanted to get into those books.
“Sorry,” I said, real quick, “I’ll do them straight after tea. Real sorry, honest!” I was shaking a bit, inside. He hadn’t walloped me for a few years but I didn’t want to push my luck right then.
Dinner continued, but all my food seemed to have turned to crud. I shoved it in dutifully, said thanks for the meal, and threw in a few more apologies for Dad’s benefit. Then I scuttled outside to get those boots and Dubbin them up good. I felt sick. I was sick of Dad and sick of soccer, and just plain sick. I sat in the back porch, scraping all the dried mud out of the joints and gaps, then brushing them with a stiff dry brush, and finally working them over with Dubbin till they shone with a dull greasy gloss. Man that stuff stank! I’ve always hated it since that day.
“Done them.” I told Dad. I showed him the boots, his boots. He nodded his approval. I went and hung them up in the laundry to stink to their heart’s content.
#
THURSDAY CAME. I WANTED to shirk out of practice but I couldn’t think how to, and get away with it. So I clamped my bag to my bicycle carrier and clamped onto my feelings and went on down to the field. The big lights were on, and my team was starting to gather. I put my boots on by my bike and left it unlocked.
I never leave it unlocked, but that night I did. Maybe because I was secretly hoping to make a sudden escape or something. Or maybe it was because I was feeling so down about everything. Just ... forgot. Stress, I guess.
Anyway it got nicked.
Dad went ballistic. I apologised and apologised, and apologised some more. I really was sorry, and I felt so dumb. I was made to phone the police and report it. Then Dad gave me another lecture and finally I was allowed to creep off to bed.
Dad came home next night with another second hand bike, a ten-speed that someone had put mountain-bike type handle bars on. I felt like a real dork riding it, but no-one seemed to notice.
We had an away game; Grafton Beach. Some parents came in their cars and we drove to Grafton and got togged up and ran onto the pitch. Fulton called us all together, “Western, Western, rah, rah, rah!” and all that crap, then we dispersed to our marks. I didn’t feel like I was really there. I didn’t care any more. I just didn’t care. If the ball came near me I’d just kick it anywhere. If they attacked I’d fall back, almost into Nathan’s lap. I didn’t try anything special. Then again I seemed to have this kind of blind indifference to what anyone might think of my actions, or even to the possibility of getting hurt. I did some amazingly good tackles.
Incredibly we won, three-two. Everyone was buzzed. I just stood around on the edges of the group, not really feeling like I was part of it.
Next thing Tony was saying to me, “Jamie. Excellent play! Great focus! Some brilliant tackles! Well done!”
It’s funny, isn’t it?