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WELL HE DIDN’T, OR I wouldn’t be here to tell you the story, but he was so mad. He ranted and raved and slapped the kitchen table loudly (I’ve got to hand it to him, he didn’t hit me) and generally really ripped into me. I just felt that old numbness coming over me, like my whole insides were shutting down. And I kept thinking of that poster, you know the one with all those mouths stacked inside each other; ‘THE ABUSE YOU YELL AT YOUR KIDS STAYS IN THE FAMILY FOR GENERATIONS’. I’d never thought of Dad as abusive before, but right then I did. I hated him big time.
But I tried to stay calm. I just stood on my spot, not far from Mum, and faced him and took it all in and sort of bent the worst of it out the side somehow and I waited and waited till he’d calmed down a bit. I needed a bit of silence to start apologising, anyway. Then I lifted my face to his and this is what I said, more or less:
“I’m very very sorry that I tried to trick you, honest. I really am. I shouldn’t have done it. I really shouldn’t have tricked you. It’s just... it’s just...” then it all came out in a rush, “...that I don’t really like soccer but I’m only playing it to make you happy and I’d rather be doing art instead!”
I don’t know why it all came out like that. It actually didn’t have anything to do with it.
Well, it did, actually. It had everything to do with it!
I cried a bit towards the end, that bit about not liking soccer and only doing it to please him. I guess I was sad because I couldn’t be everything he wanted me to be.
Anyway, that was that, - it had been said and I waited for the sky to fall.
Dad sort of rocked back on his heals a bit, looking a bit perplexed. I didn’t know what to expect. A couple of good biffs around the side of the head, probably, because I’d just insulted everything about him, and a few more biffs for my dishonesty. I kept hoping Mum was going to stay. She used to sneak away sometimes, just before the hitting began.
And still Dad stood like a rock. I looked up at him again briefly, because I knew too much looking up at him could really get him mad, like talking back to him usually did. (And you’re supposed to look up to your parents! Shee!) And I saw that he looked sad.
Then the iron come back into his voice, “Well, you can’t just bunk out on your mates now! You can’t just quit the team in the middle of the season! That’s despicable behaviour!” (Wrong on three counts: they weren’t my mates, it wasn’t the middle of the season, and I wasn’t planning to ‘bunk out’. But I didn’t say any of that, of course!)
“I’m not going to quit!” I said, slightly angry about that last assumption, “I’ll play every game. I’ll go to every practice! I won’t just quit!” The last bit came out really angry, more than I’d planned.
“Okay,” he said, still trying to be tough, “But there’ll be some consequences for this little escapade today. I don’t know what, yet, but I’ll think of something! Now get your dinner!”
And he stomped off to the lounge.
#
MY DINNER WAS PRETTY dried out by then. I picked at it without heart, and slowly it went down my throat. I was feeling pretty shell-shocked. Then I remembered Melissa’s fabulous food-art and cheered up slightly. Someday I was going to learn to do food like that. I’d do a whole dinner, maybe a birthday dinner for one of my sisters. One day.
#
NOTHING MUCH CAME OF the consequences Dad had threatened, except a cut in my allowance. I played soccer for the rest of the season, six more games I think it was, and my team came in third in the play-offs. Not bad, I suppose. Yeah, and I suppose you’d be expecting that bit of the story right about here; how I kicked the last goal of the season and so we won the last big important game and blah blah blah, but it didn’t happen like that. I just played for my own sense of pride, I guess, and to prove to Dad that I wasn’t a quitter. I played okay, that was all. (Oh, and I gave Tem my best drawing of him. He didn’t quite know how to take it but I think he was pretty blown away, actually. Like, pleased.)
Oh, I guess there was a game that should be mentioned. I guess I’m sort of proud of it: our last game against Holloway Valley. It was a hot day; an early touch of summer. We were one-all and well into the second half, and everyone was getting tired. The heat, I guess, and the tough competition. Anyway I was playing left half, my favourite position, and they came in hard. Nathan defended their goal shot and Taylor managed to only just hook it out of danger, but it was duffed shot. The ball wobbled and dribbled out of the goal-mouth melee, but was still perilously close. I scooped it up beautifully, which meant I had to cross the field. Next thing I was away, hoofing up the right wing. I saw my colours in the inner field and shot in a pass before I lost it, then raced back to my usual patch. Tem mistook that for a tactic and tapped it back to me. Suddenly I had it again, a great big wide open field in front of me. Away I went (not for me, for the team). I had a golden run, deep into their half. People were shouting everywhere but I was just going up my own quiet tunnel. I saw the colours around me, my guys, their guys. Something clicked and I made a perfect pass to Fulton just before Holloway could take me out. And he scored. Everyone was buzzed. We ran back. He caught my eye for a moment and said, grudgingly, “Good play, Wigram.”
We won that game and squeaked a third-placing. Sweet.
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ANYWAY ON THE LAST day of the season the club organised this big lunch thing for all the junior teams. We all got together at noon in a local hall and there were lots of tables loaded with food. Not art-food, just ‘bring-a-plate’ stuff. I brought a plate; club sandwiches with three different colours of bread and three different colours of fillings, cut three different ways and arranged in little stacks like a minature city on a landscape of lettuce. It certainly stood out.
Well I was proud of it.
So anyway everyone finally got in there and the kids were all eyeing the food, but just before we could attack it Tony got up with a microphone and called for order and then some semi-famous soccer player that I’d never heard off got up and made a speech and then Tony took back the microphone and said, “Now we come to a special moment in the year for me. As a coach I see all you kids start the season pretty rough around the edges, and you get out there and you play your best, and you all shake down as a team, and you have a few little tiffs too...” there was a sprinkling of laughter at that point and a few of the kids glanced at Fulton and me, “...and every year there is always someone who stands out. There’s always someone who plays hard, and plays fair, and always tries to extend his or her own limits. And I can tell you that this doesn’t go unnoticed. So it’s my pleasure to start the ball rolling and award the first Most Improved Player of the Year badge, in twelfth grade, to Jamie Wigram!”
There was a modest bit of applause and I started joining in until it finally sank into my brain; that was me! I stopped clapping and stood up, embarrassed. I went up and took the badge. He shook my hand. I just grinned stupidly and mumbled thanks and turned to go back to my seat. But he was still taking to me and I had to stop halfway across the room and turn around again. He repeated what he’d just said, “See you next year, Jamie?”
I stopped, aware of everyone listening. In the crowd I picked out the familiar faces of my team and I knew what I was like, - I’d say anything to please people.
But this time I didn’t. I just took care of myself for a change.
“No.” I said, “I don’t think so.”
#
I CLEANED UP THOSE boots real good and put in new laces (pink with black stripes), and put them away, and when Holly turned twelve I gave them to her. She loves soccer. Just recently she got selected to tour Australia with the National Schoolgirls’ Rep Team. Dad was completely chuffed!
Anyway, that’s the story, since you were asking, and it's why I've called the exhibition “Tears Before Half-time”.
Please get there early, I’m pretty nervous!
-—Love, Jamie