Actually, scratch that. Too much of an understatement. Bernie
was asbsolutely furious. Seething. Incensed. Irate.
Leo could not remember having ever seen anyone so angry.
Yet his Grandad’s rage was not aimed at him. It was directed
purely at Pete.
“I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve told you to not
bottle tackles,” Bernie snarled at his shamefaced son. “Your cowardice has just
cost us a goal! You need to toughen up, my boy. You think that was a bad
tackle, then you should see what I used to have to put up with back when I was
your age! You wouldn’t have lasted five
minutes.”
Instinctively, Leo shuddered. Those words sounded hauntingly
familiar.
As Bernie continued to berate his son, most of the other boys did their best to avoid the steely glare of their fuming coach. Some looked at the grass. Some at the sky. Some at each other. Anywhere was good enough, as long as it didn’t attract their coach’s eye.
They clearly sympathised with
Pete. Felt bad about how his Dad was so unceremoniously laying into him. Although
not enough to actually do anything to stop the ranting man’s verbal onslaught.
Leo noticed Matt’s gaze fall upon him. The curly-haired boy’s expression clearly conveyed his displeasure. He knew exactly whose mistake had really led to the goal.
If Leo had just booted the ball up the
line, then the ref would have blown for half-time, Deansview wouldn’t have
scored and Pete would have avoided the severe tongue-lashing he was currently
receiving.
Leo already felt guilty. The disgusted look on Matt’s face
made him feel even worse.
There was no way around it. He was going to have to
apologise to Pete. To his future Dad. Leo had tried to avoid talking to him so
far. He’d found it impossible to get his head around the strangeness of the
situation. Now he was left with no other option. It simply wasn’t fair to let
Pete shoulder the blame.
Leo would also have done his utmost to avoid the challenge.
So, he guessed, would the rest of the boys. Well, maybe not Jamie. He seemed to
relish the physical side of the game.
There was simply no way that Bernie should be blaming Pete
for the goal they’d conceded.
Once the half-time teamtalk was over – or, more accurately,
once Bernie had stopped calling his son every disparaging name under the sun –
the boys made their way back to their positions so that they could start the
second-half.
No one spoke to Pete. Or offered him any words of encouragement. Not one of his teammates told him that the goal wasn’t his fault. Or urged him to keep his head up and ignore what his Dad had said.
The
truth was that none of the other boys knew quite what to say or do for the best.
So they did nothing. Just left him alone.
The harsh criticism had upset Pete. That much was clear to see. He tried to act like he wasn’t bothered. An obviously forced non-plussed smile was fixed across his face, and he’d swaggered confidently over to his position on the right-flank.
But, sometimes, no matter how tough you try to
act, the truth still shines through like the brightest beacon. Pete was utterly devastated.
Taking a deep breath, Leo jogged over to the identical looking boy. Once he was standing behind him, he nervously raised a finger. Ready to tap Pete on the back.
For a moment his finger hovered in mid-air. He heard
a couple of his temporary teammates’ mutter for him to “just leave Pete alone.”
That “he’d be fine. He’s used to it.”
But it was too late. Leo’s finger had already made contact
with Pete’s shoulder-blade.
Slowly, Pete turned to face him.
“What?” Pete spat, unable to hide his annoyance at being
disturbed.
Momentarily, Leo was rendered speechless. Once again, he
was struck by just how much his father had once looked like him. It was like he
was looking at a clone.
Pulling himself together, Leo tried to apologise to his Dad.
Explained that it was he himself who had been responsible for the goal. That
hurdling the tackle was the only sensible thing Pete could have done. His only option. It was the
exact same thing that everyone else would have done, too.
His words seemed to have no effect on Pete whatsoever. For a
few seconds, Leo’s Dad just stood motionless, staring off into space.
Eventually, he gave a non-committal shrug of the shoulders. “Whatever,” he
sighed wearily.
Sensing that Pete really didn’t want to talk about what had
happened, Leo began striding to his position at right back. He’d taken a few steps
away from Pete, when he suddenly stopped walking. He spun on his heels so that he
was once again facing his father.
“What now?” huffed Pete.
“Why do you let him treat you like that?” asked Leo.
While Leo’s apology may have failed to provoke much of a
reaction from Pete, this question most certainly did. Albeit, not necessarily
the reaction that Leo was expecting.
Immediately, Pete’s face started to turn tomato red and his body started to shake uncontrollably. Once again, his furious expression reminded Leo of the family connection between his father and grandfather.
“What’s it got to do with you?” Pete growled, keeping his voice low. He didn’t
want the others to notice he was rattled. “You don’t know me. Or my Dad. You
have no idea what you’re talking about. Leave me alone.”
Pete took a menacing step towards Leo, as if attempting to
ward the younger boy off.
But Leo stood his ground. For a reason he couldn’t fully
explain, he didn’t feel intimidated in the slightest. He felt remarkably cool
and composed.
“I do, actually,” he replied calmly. “I know exactly what
it’s like. To feel like you’ve let your Dad down. Like you’re not good enough.
To glance over at the slideline and see that look of disgust on his face every
single time you make a mistake. Sometimes even when you don’t. It’s horrible.
The worst feeling in the world.”
Once more, Pete looked like he was going to explode with rage. He took another step towards Leo. He was now within touching distance. Leo noticed that Pete’s right hand had balled into a fist. His knuckles white from where he was squeezing his hand so tightly.
Yet Leo still wasn’t scared.
Somehow, he knew – just knew – that Pete wasn’t going to punch him.
Sure enough, a second or two later the red flush of anger
drained from Pete’s face. His right fist unclenched. He began to blink rapidly.
“That’s… that’s exactly how I feel,” he stuttered. “Is your Dad a bit like
mine, then?” he asked.
Leo tried to suppress a grin. But he couldn’t. “More than
you could ever know,” he answered, chuckling slightly to himself.
“So… how do you deal with it?” Pete asked.
Leo paused. Mulled the question over in his
mind, scratching at his cropped red hair as he did so. “I don’t,” he replied
eventually. “Not really,” he added, poking his bottom lip over his top one. “I
should… talk to him about it… I guess.”
“I just wish,” Pete began, searching for the right words. “…
I just wish… that he’d just let me play, you know? For fun. With a smile on my
face. The way all the other boys do.” He made a sweeping gesture with his right
arm. “Not moan at me every few minutes.”
Leo nodded his agreement. He knew exactly what Pete was talking
about. Knew only too well.
“I love football, I really do,” Pete continued, becoming more animated now. This was the first time he’d ever voiced his frustrations aloud. He’d always believed that no-one would bother to listen to him. Or, if they did, they’d think he was moaning about nothing.
Yet this strange, small boy who had appeared from seemingly out of nowhere appeared to get him. He understood. Or, at least, he seemed to.
“But sometimes… just sometimes… I kind
of… don’t love it.”
“Like when nothing you do is ever quite good enough,” stated Leo.
“Yeah. Exactly,” agreed Pete. “I reckon I’d play much better
if he just left me alone,” he continued, nodding his head in Bernie’s
direction. The coach was once again puffing on a cigarette. He already appeared
calmer than he had been a few moments earlier. “Sometimes I just feel so…
pressured, when he shouts at me.”
Once again, Leo nodded. But before he had a chance to
respond, Jamie ordered them to stop “nattering like a couple of old ladies,”
and get into their positions.
The second-half was about to begin.
Chapter 9 to be released on 12th August 2024
Text and image copyright © David Fuller
David Fuller asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author or publishers.

Comments
Post a Comment