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NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE
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08 10 2009 6m p3 |
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Jumpers Down by Daniel Clay |
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Synopsis
1989, the summer is here. For a group of boys, it means only one thing football. However, that harmony is about to be threatened and ultimately destroyed by something they had never even thought about; something that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.
Opening chapters Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it's much more serious than that. Bill Shankly
It is easy to remember the summers of our childhood as more magical than they really were, but in retrospect, they were lived and breathed for by us more than anyone. It was the escape from the eternal damp of winter to the outdoors; the enticement of the blossoming of spring, heralding the summer which was to come. For us, it was not a glorification of sun, sand and sea as it was for many. It was the expansion of time, the permit from parents to be up as late as ten, practicing, playing and perfecting our greatest passion. We would only need to shed the winter skins of our jumpers, place them a few feet apart, repeat the ritual on the opposite side of the grass, and we were set. This was our theatre of dreams, as it had been for years. We saw no reason why this summer would be any different, although it would. At the time, any slight problem, any deviation would be perceived as a major disaster. Looking back of course, accidents happen, people move on, and things change. Nothing can stay perfect forever, although for us, with many such years behind us, the hot summer of nineteen eighty nine promised much. It delivered more. Of course, given the gift of hindsight, things werent perfect. We may have had our theatre of dreams, but separated by a road, two fairly dangerous kerbs and a couple of badly positioned trees, it wasnt the most perfect place to spend a summers evening. At the age of ten though, these things were immaterial and irrelevant. Our road led nowhere, or to be more precise, the primary school we had attended years earlier. The heavy steel gate which kept barricaded inside the days memories of hopscotch and kiss-chase, was always firmly closed, providing a useful side line. The kerbs, although high, provided a mean way of chipping the ball in preparation for a spectacular volley if booted against hard enough. And the conker bearing trees, so popular with us in the autumn months, were highly advantageous in outmaneuvering an opponent if he was sent the wrong way around. You could be half way through celebrating your goal before he appeared, looking bewildered and bemused, as if unaware from previous experiences, exactly how long it took to circumnavigate the deceptive horse chestnut. For us, this was perfection, and to be afforded lifes luxury of spending the warm, muggy summers evening on such hallowed turf was our gift from the gods. This was our stage. We made sure we played on it with each second we were granted. Nothing would come between that - Nothing.
Let me remember that time exactly as it was.
It is a warm May morning. I am waking up in my room, aware that today is a special day. Of course it is. Its my eleventh birthday. The thin curtains feebly blocking the bright morning light are whispering in the already mild breeze. They match the bedspread around me, as if continuing my sleepy dreams up the wall, out the window and into the burgeoning day. Getting up, I know there will be no presents waiting for me. They will be saved for later in the day, to be opened when parents are home from work, when the days schooling is over, and when the feverish anticipation of their contents has built to a point when anti-climax is the only possible outcome. I remember not needing material gifts to rise me from the bed. The knowledge that for one day, people will acknowledge me with a faint air of reverence for being born is enough. The numerous friends who speed through your life at this age, many of which you will lose as you are steered on alternate paths, are your life. That is what feeds my excitement as I dress, pack my bag and head down the stairs to begin the day. For me, it is the first official day of the summer. I cannot remember a birthday that didnt start in this way. It is always warm at the start of May, and will usually continue to be so for a while now. Are these wet summers of recent years a new phenomenon? I dont recall a single one in my childhood. The past is warm and hazy, as it should be, and can be easily forgotten or remembered falsely. No one ever asks that it be wholly accurate, otherwise what would we be able to compare the relative failure of our present lives to if not time successfully elapsed. I remember heading out of the house and collecting my Grifter bike, with its three gears and making the short journey to Sams house. It must have only been a few yards, but the bike needed warming up. Sam is my best friend, he lives close by and he likes the same things as me. We are forever teasing his sister, whose name I no longer remember, about her enormous Sindy playhouse constructed in the playroom, taking up the space our Scalextric track demanded. Sam is always punctual, and is waiting at two minutes past eight, a glass of orange juice in his hand, his mother kissing him on the forehead. His bag is packed, nestling by the door as if anxious for the days education. Leaving, we cycle the mile or so to school, him in front, me with my walkman on. I think I may have opened that present early. Mum must have caved in. The route has its familiar signposts; the library, the video hire shop, the garage which we would frequent on the way home for its abundance of five pence ice pops; the church, useful on the way and way home for the shade offered by the line of plush green trees opposite; the Coach and Horses pub, which in years to come my older brother would take me to to play pool and drink shandy as if we were true adults. Then up the long hill, steep at first, as I would painfully find out one day, then more gradual, before at last we arrived, in the middle of glistening yellow fields and a warming breeze, into the school grounds. But school days become a blur now, having been the forced receiver and giver of so many. My memories are not of such days, but of the joy of their ending, taking the ride back down the hill, through the shade, and arriving, ice pop in one hand, the other pushing the bike, back at home. These late afternoons and evenings occupy my minds projection room, images flashing through my head. I have been back since, at points when adult life becomes too much, to see once again the setting for these particular films. Not much has changed. If I close my eyes, the spirit could almost be there. Of course, it would never be the same as then, and even though in my mind, places, emotions and friends can be summoned back from the pasts rosy grip, the true spirit of what we played died in that summer. We had no choice but to let it... |
