Canadian Football Goalposts
Nostalgia
Today I visited an old park that in early life I used to frequent; it was coincidence that found me there on a cold December morning, and I felt compelled to indulge my nostalgia. The meandering, broad footpath that fed into its heart was shorter than memory suggested, and I was surrounded by familiar fields, goalposts and oak trees in minutes. The last time I came I was seven. It was early, a bitter dawn resembling that which fifteen years later I would find here; a few committed runners were all the company we had. My brother and father tailed behind carrying football and bottles, speaking, while in impatience I strode ahead, desperate to secure an area of grass for the game. My father was too old for sport.
I found a bench; there was an inscription that I couldn’t read, worn to almost nothing, a dedication to a man loved once, but evidently forgotten; I sat down and pulled my coat tight, put on some gloves. A woman passed me, jogging; our eyes met but we did not speak. Another opportunity wasted. I remained there, motionless, for almost an hour, writing in silence, until gradually the sun became visible and families arrived.
The park wasn’t in a bad condition, I suppose, considering its surroundings. The significance of the immense buildings which had in more innocent times, intimidated me, emerging from behind the wood, was now clear: they were tall, unsightly housing blocks. In a way I was more afraid of them now I knew – having in local rumour heard about certain macabre incidents which occurred there: several assaults, innumerable thefts, and the murder. I felt disillusioned, in the way I’d anticipated I’d be when coming here. What business did I have to impose upon my childhood, expose its untruths?
I walked on past the towers in awe, calling to my brother as I aimed a stone at the furthest. He ignored me, and I let it drop to the floor. Reaching the closest green I set down the bags and waited. We changed places several times, in order to find the spot with least frost, malleable earth. Guiltily, I watched my father clear debris from the pitch for our safety; meanwhile we substituted shoes for expensive boots and long socks, wrestling over colours.
I couldn’t concentrate on poetry while uncontained brats screamed and cried, so, frustrated, I began to shove volumes into my briefcase at random. An attractive jogger entered my peripheral vision, and sure enough the woman passed me again, looked across again; and on an impulse I stood up and pursued her, shadowing at a sluggish pace, a few yards behind.
There is a large duck pond filled with geese at the park, which constitutes its principal attraction for minors; flocks of Canadian geese which swarm at the first drop of feed are sustained by wardens during the winter months, for the sole purpose of entertainment: children can pay for bags of food, which, laughing, they distribute, and watch the awkward creatures endeavour to prolong their lives. I always wonder what goes through the animal’s minds, as they suffer the indignity of fighting for food proffered by the young of a more intelligent species, and whether they find it degrading at all.
Today a man was standing by the water’s edge with a boy who looked hardly old enough to feed himself, encouraging it to throw bread at the geese – at the geese – and laughing at the consequences. His attention wavered, and he watched my woman intently, before directing his wounded gaze at me. Suddenly he picked up the kid and started to chase us at an understandably diminutive speed. If I wasn’t so absorbed by the absurdity of the situation I found myself in, I would have taken time to consider the threat posed by this man behind me – or rather, I took too much time observing him, the bald, muscular, thuggish looking guy who must have been pushing seven feet, and came to view myself as a passive observer, distanced from any problems he might cause.
When we had a clean and relatively compliant square of turf at our disposal, our father threw a ball to James, who, agitated with enthusiasm, volleyed it back rather fervently, and dealt quite a stinging blow to father’s face. It was the beginning of what was to be a demanding hour for the three of us. Perturbed by our father’s subsequent lack of participation, we persuaded him to play a game against us, on a reduced pitch. Even with an opposition whose combined age is twelve, soccer when outnumbered requires a large amount of cardiovascular commitment.
Eventually, when the lout had gained all but twenty feet on me, I became conscious of the imminent threat written on his thuggish countenance, and the responsibility I bore for it. The woman by now had paused by the lake, indifferent.
I struck an excellent curling pass to create our seventh goal, evading father’s lunge and falling into James’ path; wrecking the movement’s grace, James threw an exuberant boot into the ball and sent it arching almost fifty feet beyond the trees. Father turned red with suppressed fury and began running through the wood to retrieve it another time. Ten minutes later, father had yet to emerge, and, outrageously, neither of us panicked until another five had passed. Then, with the toss of a coin, I sent James over to investigate.
I looked round now; the child was beside its mother: the brutish gentleman had begun to sprint, but had lost some distance in the dispatching of offspring. He’d apparently tried to engage me in conversation several times, but for some reason I was crying, too absorbingly to notice.
I watched James’ thin legs carry him the seemingly endless distance. His scream and the ambulance’s wailing are indistinguishable.
I ran, sobbing, from the park.
I ran, sobbing, from the park.
About the Author
I’m an English student from England. I write things occasionally. Influences include: Thomas Hardy, John Irving, Philip Larkin and Fernando Sorrentino. Favourite quotes: “there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” “either this man is dead or my watch has stopped” and “don’t do that I’m asleep”. My website’s at: http://sites.google.com/site/outputemporium/
QBweekly Youth Goal Posts Challenge 2010
