How to be a man

I see a black-and-white photo of a crying boy in football gear standing on the sidelines. He has number 7 on his back but no name is printed on it. Number 17 does have a name but it is illegible. The football field seems empty.

I feel great sadness, and frustration and sooner or later someone will explode.

You better send that kid to football, my father said to my mother while he looked at me as if I had some contagious disease. Nothing will come of it. My mother looked at him angrily but said nothing.
When my father visits occasionally he is always critical. I am not going to repeat what he says.

A week later he visits again, earlier than agreed. Come on, lazybones, he shouts and throws a bag across the room. Hurry up and get changed, I'll take you to football and you, he looks at my mother, you pick that kid up again at three o'clock. My mother wants to say something back but he interrupts her with the words: after a day without him, you can do at least something or?

I quickly fled upstairs with the bag and looked at the football clothes he bought. I fit in them but they are uncomfortable. Those stupid knee socks pinch my legs. The shoes hurt. There is now a number 7 on my back. It must be an unlucky number. I can't even catch a ball let alone kick one.
After a ride in which my father shouted the rules of football at me and I kept nodding even though I had no idea what he is talking about we arrived at the football club.

Well, says Father, now you will learn how to be a man because with that worthless mother of yours that is not going to work, Go on inside. You are not a wimp, are you? He looks at me disapprovingly.
He walks with big steps to a changing room and I follow him. With a jerk, he pulls the door open and there are all the boys, a few from school, and he pushes me inside.
Do your best, your mother will pick you up later.

I have been left behind in the lion's den. I don't know what is worse, a locker room full of rotten boys or my father. Of course the trainer didn't show up right away, he was still busy. I didn't play football for a second because I had to watch the others play on the sidelines to learn something from it, the trainer said with a false smile while he touched my butt.

Football makes you a real man, Father said, it is healthy for your body and mind. I don't feel it. When I am at home I get more exercise than on this stupid field where I also have to let them yell at me. In my room with a book I at least have peace of mind until the next visit from father. I hope my mother can find the way and isn't late because I want to get home as soon as possible. I wish I could dump that stupid sports bag, and it was stolen and Father is too poor to buy a new set.




for PIC1000 see @freewritehouse