Football

David hesitated before turning the key in his father’s front door, unwilling to exchange the crisp, clean air for the nauseating heat which, mixed with the odour of stale perspiration, he found almost unbearable. Snow had begun to fall earlier that morning. As David watched it settling on the garden he smiled wryly, remembering how, as a boy, the smallest flurry from mid-week onwards had raised his hopes that Saturday’s football match would be cancelled. He shuddered involuntarily.

The striped woollen hat made David’s head too hot, and the bobble on top made him feel ridiculous. Old ladies stopped to smile at him, as though he was a cute puppy. At least his scarf, which was pulled up almost to his nose, hid his blushing cheeks. He pretended to be in disguise. Dressed like this, surely no-one would guess that he was a boy who hated football.

David thought that perhaps his father was in disguise too. The grumpy, scowling man had been replaced by someone who seemed almost excited. He gripped David’s hand tightly as they waited at the bus stop, whistling softly. His skin felt dry, rough and unfamiliar.

After the bus journey came the walk to the stadium. David’s father strode at an adult pace, forcing David to trot anxiously alongside him, tripping several times over his own feet. As they hurried along, the crowd grew denser. Strangers nudged against them without apology.

As they entered the stadium, David’s father pressed a coin into his hand, nodding towards a kiosk where a man in a flat cap was selling programmes. Reluctantly letting go of his father’s hand, David joined the queue. But, when it came to his turn, the programme seller failed to notice his upstretched hand, which did not quite reach the kiosk window. Too shy to draw attention to himself, David abandoned his mission and returned empty handed. A familiar expression settled on his father’s face as he rolled his eyes skyward.

“Give me strength.” he muttered. David did not dare take his hand again. The spell had been broken.

A curtain twitched suspiciously on the other side of the road, and David reluctantly entered the house. From the living room he heard the low rumble of voices. He closed the door carefully and removed his shoes, hoping to reach the kitchen undetected and enjoy a beer from the fridge. He paused outside the living room door, recognising the voice of a neighbour. The door was slightly ajar, and David could not resist peering into the room.

The scene was a familiar one. Only the victim differed from performance to performance. The neighbour, who had seemingly only come to deliver a newspaper on her way home, as she had done every day for the last three months, sat sweltering in her coat, scarf and gloves. Held captive by Ken’s ramblings, she was too kind to attempt an escape.

“Nearly fifty years with never a cross word.” Ken covered his face with one shaking hand. The neighbour leaned forward and placed her own hand over his free one on the arm of the chair. Ken’s shoulders heaved. David barely managed to stifle a snort of derision. Not caring now whether they heard him, he strode into the kitchen.

The afternoon got no better. David could muster no enthusiasm for the action on the pitch. He focused on the stadium clock, which counted down the minutes until his release, when he would return to the safety of his bedroom and his games. A goal was scored. The crowd rose to its feet. Only David remained seated. His father looked down, shaking his head in despair.

On the journey back, neither of them spoke. Yet, inexplicably, Ken brightened when they arrived home, telling David’s mother they had had a good afternoon. It would be a regular thing from now on. Father and son. David chased his peas around his plate with his fork, saying nothing.

The fridge door was smeared with black fingerprints; evidence of Ken’s only remaining occupation, his daily scrutiny of the newspaper. Opening the fridge, David was disappointed, although not surprised, to find it empty of beer. A solitary tomato mouldered in the salad drawer. A half empty soup tin sat alone on a shelf. David sighed and closed the door, realising that, despite the weather, he would need to go shopping.

He filled the kettle. Failing to find a clean mug, he selected the least dirty, and rinsed it under the tap. The water drained away slowly. Ken’s grief had seemingly displaced his common sense, and he poured anything down the sink these days. As David bent down to grope for a plunger in the cupboard under the sink, the neighbour tapped shyly on the kitchen door. Her eyes were full of tears. David smiled awkwardly, anticipating what was coming next. It had long ceased to amaze him, the way everything that so irritated him about his father elicited such unquestioning sympathy from others. Everyone pitied a widower.

“Such a lovely man…” Her eyes filled with tears as her sentence tailed off. David grunted in a non committal way and ushered her to the door, keen to say goodbye before she urged him, as everyone seemed to these days, to take care of his father.

As the day of the next match approached, David grew anxious. He pleaded with his mother to somehow avert the impending ordeal. Her hand fluttered to her throat, the way it always did when she was nervous. She was making no promises, she said.

David lay still in his bed and stared at the ceiling as the low rumble of voices grew louder. He identified the familiar sounds; a mug banging on the kitchen table, chair legs scraping the kitchen floor, a door slamming, a bottle being cracked open, something being thrown against a wall. He placed his hands over his ears, but some words seeped through.

“Mummy’s boy” his father spat. David knew this was not a good thing to be. There were other words too, before it finally grew quiet. David understood that he would be going to the football that Saturday.

When David walked into the living room his father acknowledged him with a grunt. He held his newspaper up close to his face, scrutinizing the sports results. David slumped into an armchair. On the table beside him lay a photograph album, open at a page with pictures of himself and his father in matching hats and scarves. Ken’s arm rested on his shoulders. They both grinned at the camera. Irritated, David snapped the book shut. His father looked up.

"She was asking to see them,” he said, nodding towards the neighbour’s house. David pictured the poor woman, desperate to escape, forced to exclaim over images of the idyllic family life Ken was sure he had once had, and had now lost. Saying nothing, he rose to replace the album on the shelf.

On the morning of David’s birthday, his father produced an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on David’s breakfast plate. It was too thick to be a birthday card. For a moment, the three of them sat silently. David’s mother twisted her wedding ring round and round her finger. Her hands shook slightly. She chewed her lip. David picked up the envelope, guessing already what it contained. A season ticket. He kept his head down until he was sure he was wearing the correct expression. Then he looked up at his father, his smile stretching as far as it would go. His face ached. He managed a small whoop of joy as he punched the air. His mother audibly let out her breath. She rose and went to make fresh toast. Satisfied, his father reached across the table and ruffled David’s hair. In his world, at least, all was as it should be.

For the first time since David’s arrival, Ken roused himself from his chair and shuffled over to the radio. Bending so that his ear almost touched it, he fiddled with the old-fashioned dial. Everything about him demanded pity, thought David. His unkempt hair badly needed cutting, his sweatshirt was stained, his belt was pulled in to its tightest notch, holding up trousers that had once fitted. On the rare occasions when he spoke, he revealed rotting teeth. He had given up. Repulsed, David turned away.

At last Ken found the station he had been searching for. But, as David could have predicted, all football that afternoon had been cancelled due to the weather. Ken slunk back to his chair, shaking his head and muttering, as though this latest disappointment was a personal attack on him by the forces of nature. His eyes appealed to David to share in his anguish at the loss of the afternoon’s entertainment. David could not keep the smirk from his lips.

“I’ve always hated football.” he said.