soon as they blew the whistle, quickly jump out, put the sack over my head and run in the other direction.
The other kids always had the proper kit for football. I, on the other, would still be in my school shorts, wearing one white and one black trainer borrowed from Lost Property. (Lots of my clothes were also made by Mum, an avid knitter. The only problem was, when it rained I was suddenly carrying 400 pounds of extra weight.) But I didn’t care, as long as I was picked to go in goal. I loved it, because I could dive everywhere. But when the ball actually came towards me, I’d panic and dive frantically in a random direction, letting the ball go straight into the net, to the massive groans of the other kids. After a few experiences like that, I was quite content to stand on the sidelines and make spaceship noises.
My first game of cricket didn’t go too well either. I was finally picked to bat. I had never had the honour before, and so I was very nervous. When the ball was bowled at me, I swung at it with all the effort I could muster and, by chance, hit it. I opened my eyes and, turning round to see where it had gone, I noticed all the other kids scouring the air. I looked up and there it was, high in the sky. Now it was coming down, fast. A shout came from Pat Phelps on the far side of the field that the ball was his. Pat was, apparently, really good at catching. Not only could he catch balls well, but all the girls thought he was a catch as well, as he had really nice teeth.
So he was standing there beneath my ball, with his hands cupped up ready in front of him to catch it. I watched as the ball fell towards him. Resigning myself toreturning back to the pavilion, I dropped the bat and headed off the pitch. At that moment, I heard Pat shout, ‘I got it, I got it.’ I knew he had it, he always caught the ball. I was as good as out. But then, all of a sudden, I heard, ‘I got it, I goooooaaarghmmmm?’
‘What does that mean?’ I thought. I looked up towards Pat, and he certainly did have the ball. It had gone through his hands and jammed itself into his mouth, knocking out most of his lovely teeth.
It was, I hasten to say, a complete freak accident, and that’s how it was explained to his parents by our PE teacher – though I, of course, was never allowed near a bat ever again. But that was all right. I had moved on.
While at school, despite having the eagerness of a ball-chasing dog, I was never picked for any team. They didn’t even trust me with the oranges at half time, deciding that it would be safer to place them on the side of the field at the ready before the game. This was so disheartening for me – the PE teacher would rather trust a fruit to supply itself at half time than to rely on me to be in any way involved in what some might think a simple task.
My main motivation for wanting to be a sportsman was that I’d noticed lots of girls from school would stay behind after hours to stand on the touchline and cheer on the boys’ teams in football and rugby. So I believed it to be imperative that somehow I must put some shorts on and blag my way into anything resembling a school team. I lay in bed at night dreaming that one of the main players in the school football team would miss a sitter at a crucial point in the match, triggering anger and a near riot from the disenchanted, rumbling crowd of girls who wouldthen begin chanting my name, as I reticently kitted up. Not stuff from Lost Property, mind, but from a major sponsor.
‘Lee is under-rated,’ they would chorus, ‘he is not to be wasted. Let him on and win this game, and we’ll definitely get butt naked.’
Well, a boy can dream.
10. The Hair Trigger
You know the phrase ‘Stuff that up your arse’? Has that ever been done before? I can bear witness that it has. I saw it with my own eyes.
At weekends, Wayne and I would often walk across the back fields near the estate. It was always a bit of an adventure to visit the tip that was
The other kids always had the proper kit for football. I, on the other, would still be in my school shorts, wearing one white and one black trainer borrowed from Lost Property. (Lots of my clothes were also made by Mum, an avid knitter. The only problem was, when it rained I was suddenly carrying 400 pounds of extra weight.) But I didn’t care, as long as I was picked to go in goal. I loved it, because I could dive everywhere. But when the ball actually came towards me, I’d panic and dive frantically in a random direction, letting the ball go straight into the net, to the massive groans of the other kids. After a few experiences like that, I was quite content to stand on the sidelines and make spaceship noises.
My first game of cricket didn’t go too well either. I was finally picked to bat. I had never had the honour before, and so I was very nervous. When the ball was bowled at me, I swung at it with all the effort I could muster and, by chance, hit it. I opened my eyes and, turning round to see where it had gone, I noticed all the other kids scouring the air. I looked up and there it was, high in the sky. Now it was coming down, fast. A shout came from Pat Phelps on the far side of the field that the ball was his. Pat was, apparently, really good at catching. Not only could he catch balls well, but all the girls thought he was a catch as well, as he had really nice teeth.
So he was standing there beneath my ball, with his hands cupped up ready in front of him to catch it. I watched as the ball fell towards him. Resigning myself toreturning back to the pavilion, I dropped the bat and headed off the pitch. At that moment, I heard Pat shout, ‘I got it, I got it.’ I knew he had it, he always caught the ball. I was as good as out. But then, all of a sudden, I heard, ‘I got it, I goooooaaarghmmmm?’
‘What does that mean?’ I thought. I looked up towards Pat, and he certainly did have the ball. It had gone through his hands and jammed itself into his mouth, knocking out most of his lovely teeth.
It was, I hasten to say, a complete freak accident, and that’s how it was explained to his parents by our PE teacher – though I, of course, was never allowed near a bat ever again. But that was all right. I had moved on.
While at school, despite having the eagerness of a ball-chasing dog, I was never picked for any team. They didn’t even trust me with the oranges at half time, deciding that it would be safer to place them on the side of the field at the ready before the game. This was so disheartening for me – the PE teacher would rather trust a fruit to supply itself at half time than to rely on me to be in any way involved in what some might think a simple task.
My main motivation for wanting to be a sportsman was that I’d noticed lots of girls from school would stay behind after hours to stand on the touchline and cheer on the boys’ teams in football and rugby. So I believed it to be imperative that somehow I must put some shorts on and blag my way into anything resembling a school team. I lay in bed at night dreaming that one of the main players in the school football team would miss a sitter at a crucial point in the match, triggering anger and a near riot from the disenchanted, rumbling crowd of girls who wouldthen begin chanting my name, as I reticently kitted up. Not stuff from Lost Property, mind, but from a major sponsor.
‘Lee is under-rated,’ they would chorus, ‘he is not to be wasted. Let him on and win this game, and we’ll definitely get butt naked.’
Well, a boy can dream.
10. The Hair Trigger
You know the phrase ‘Stuff that up your arse’? Has that ever been done before? I can bear witness that it has. I saw it with my own eyes.
At weekends, Wayne and I would often walk across the back fields near the estate. It was always a bit of an adventure to visit the tip that was
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