Last Pick Joe

'LAST PICK JOE'

Chapter 1- Waiting.

"I'll have Nicky, " calls Paul.

Paul always picks Nicky first. Nicky's mum works in the local sweet shop. It can be very useful being Nicky's friend.

"Michael," Stefanshouts. That's a good choice by Stefan. It stops the arguing. Michael
always plays in goal. No one wants to play in goal. You get your fingers bruised.

"George, come this side." The captains continue to pick their players. They take it in turn, carefully considering each choice. Every selection is very important. "Chris." Stefan continues to pick the skilful players.

I love waiting with the others. Whose side will I be on? "Eddie." It's always a long wait. Well, it is for me.

"Jake the Animal." But I wait.

And I wait. "Last Pick Joe. Come on, Joe," Stefan calls me over to his side. At last.

Today's not special. I'm always the last pick. 'Last Pick Joe'. That's me. Even Mr. Dibble, my sports teacher, uses the nickname. I'm the last choice because I'm
not that good. But I don't care. As long as I'm playing, I'm happy.

Where's Pudding? After school, I spot Pudding waiting at the gates. I ask him why he wasn't playing at lunch time. "Mum asked dad to tell me about the 'birds and the bees'," Pudding replies. " It took ages. I kept laughing and Dad kept going red with embarrassment." We both laugh. Parents are so annoying. "Are you going home on the bus?" asks Pudding. I had planned to walk and spend the money on a packet of
football stickers. But Pudding is my best friend and by taking the bus
I will have time to describe the game he missed.

"I forgot my bus pass. Can I borrow 50p? " Pudding enquires. Pudding always forgets something. His pens, his trainers, his bag, his homework. Every day he remembers
to forget something new. Here comes the bus. We jump on. I pay Pudding's bus fare.

My match report starts immediately. I tell him of my two best moments. The first was a pass to Stefan who scored a scorcher from the behind the concrete seats. A brilliant goal. "Good pass, Joe," Stefan called. I was actually trying to pass it to Chris.
My second touch was an excellent throw on. I kept my feet on the ground
and released the ball before my hands passed my head. It flew across
the playground. Very professional.

Pudding doesn't say a word. Maybe he is not impressed with my stories. Maybe he's just worried that his dad will be waiting at home; with another biology lesson.

Chapter 2 - Home, Sweet Pasta

"Home," I shout, "What's for dinner, mum?" "Don't try to be funny. It's my turn to cook," Dad responds with a smile. Dad likes my jokes. "Go and prepare the table, you cheeky munchking." Dad's cooking has improved since he became ill and lost his job. As he says, practice makes perfect. Or in his case, practice makes pasta.

"Good day," Dad enquires. Of course it was. Any day playing football is a good day.
Action replay time. I show him the highlights of my performance in slow motion. "Did you keep your feet on the ground, Joe?" Why does he need to ask? I point to my toes. He smiles. "Go and play with Flo."

Flo's watching telly. "Go away," she moans. "I don't want to play". I give her the opportunity of a lifetime; a chance to save my penalties in the living room. She still doesn't want to know.

"Were there any problems at school, Joe?" Dad shouts from the kitchen. I lie. I don't tell him that Billy in 5Green took the mickey out of my surname. I was going to
hit him but I remembered mum's warning on not to fight. So I ran and got Jake the Animal. Jake wasn't supposed to hit him that hard. Ouch!

The newspaper rack saves another of my brilliant penalties. The door knocks. It's mum. Flo and I run to give her a cuddle. She then goes and gives dad a kiss. We imitate the kissing noises. They're always kissing. We get embarrassed but we prefer their kisses to their arguments. I feel sad when they argue. They shout and scream. Dad punches doors and Mum throws fruit. She has a terrible aim. The fruit
always lands on the floor. He then normally storms out. Flo and I are left to pick up the fruit. But he's usually back in ten minutes. Hehates the cold. They always make up. My mum has told us not to worry.It's just their childish genes coming out. Soon they will all be gone and only the adult genes will remain. I can't wait. I hate eating
bruised fruit.

The food is ready. "Everybody to the table, including the ugly one," Dad jokes. Same joke every night. We love eating. It's the only family talent. We start to tuck in. Dad starts to tell us about how he made his sauce. We don't really want to know. But we nod and make the right noises, to show our approval.

Dad then starts his daily history lesson. This normally starts with the scariest sentence in the English language, "When I was a boy..." It's the Village Period
tonight. We learn that in my dad's home village, they only had bread and olives to eat for over five years. We only seem to have pasta.

"Very interesting dad," Flo lies. I try to keep awake. Mum asks Flo about her day. Mum nods and smiles as my sister' describes how to make a castle with a banana box and six toilet rolls. She then turns her attention to me. "Was school OK today, Joseph?" She asks. Mum only uses my full name at the start of serious conversations. She wants to know if I've been called any names today.

"Mixed breed, half caste, greasy, garlic breath, afrohead". Some kids can't make up their minds. At least 'Last Pick Joe' is truthful and makes me laugh. But the rest are nasty. Mum says I should always stand up against all racists' words. I do. Normally behind Jake, my strongest friend. Why do they always get it wrong? I know who I am. If they asked, I would tell them. I'm half Cypriot, half Punjabi. My dad's from the Island of Love and my mum's from a Land where everyone is a Princess. Like all Sikh women, Kaur is her middle name. A brilliant combination.

"Joseph, HOW was school?" I tell her it was fine. I described my football experiences. She smiles but her thoughts are elsewhere. I know she worries.

Last Christmas, some older boys, started to follow me as I turned off our High street.
They started to chase me and call me horrible names. I felt scared. I ran into our flats crying. Luckily, they did not follow. By the time I had climbed the steps, my eyes were nearly dry. Dad opened the door. I tried to stop shaking. I didn't want to upset him, so I lied. I told him I had tripped. "Playing football?" he asked. I don't know why, but
the word 'football' switched my tears back on. Maybe because I didn't
associate my fear with football. Dad did not say a word. He just took me by the hand and led me to the bathroom. He gently took off my football shirt, folded it and placed it neatly on the side cupboard. He took a flannel and wiped my face. My tears were spread around my face.He gave me a cuddle. "Don't worry, Joe." But I was worried. I wasworried because he was worried. Mum had once said Dad was the biggest
worrier in the world. I had thought she meant that he was a fighting warrior and so proudly told all my friends. I soon realised what she meant. My dad is a very emotional man. He has no problem crying. I think it's a disease. As we both stood in the bathroom, dad asked what had happened. I told him. " Joe, this country is our home and no one's got the right to make you feel unwelcome in your own home," Dad
whispered. "Be strong". We went to the local Italian restaurant that night. No one had pasta. When we got home, I remember having troubletrying to sleep. I kept looking outside my window . The sky seemed cold and still. I could hear someone weeping in the other room. I knew why. Dad had told mum. I started to cry. I tried to stop myself. But I couldn't. I had caught my dad's crying disease.

Chapter 3 - The Chicken Pox Outbreak

Chicken Pox. I love those chickens. I got the message. I met Mr. Dibble in the Sports Department office. Mr. Dibble stares intensely into my eyes. "Last Pick Joe, we're in a very serious situation. We've lost half the team with chicken pox. A disaster," he informs me. I already knew. Half my class was absent from morning registration. "If you can get your football boots by this afternoon,you're in the team." My heart started to jump. My time had finally arrived.

The worst player in the history of the game is going to represent his school. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised I hadn't been selected before today. Mr. Dibble doesn't know a sausage about football. He is, without doubt, the worst sports teacher in the World.

In football practice, we once had to try to imagine our shots flying into the net before we took them. I scored ten in my mind, none in reality. He's like a maths teacher who doesn't know his times tables.

"One day, he will be the England coach," my dad had once said, jokingly. Once Mr. Dibble's words had registered in my brain, I told him that I would be available for the game and politely thanked him. The lunchtime buzzer rang out loud.

So I ran straight home to get my boots. Why am I running? I haven't even got any football boots. Still, I have to tell my dad. It will bring a smile to his face. When I get home, Dad is listening to the radio. I am breathless. I try to talk. The words won't come out. Dad looks worried. "I'm in the team," I assure him. He takes me close for a bear hug. I wait for his tears.

"Follow me," he says. We go into Flo's room. Why? Where is he taking
me? My kit's under the stairs. Dad bends down and puts his head under
Flo's bed. He pulls out a box. I am totally confused. What is he doing?
"Open it," he orders, as he gives me a dark green shoe box. I take the
lid off and there they are. A brand new pair of professional World Cup
football boots. Real boots; made of real leather with real studs.

"But
dad, I'm rubbish. I'm only playing because of the national chicken pox
outbreak," I whimper. His smile gets larger. I start to cry.

Chapter 4- In the Field of Day Dreams

The dressing room is cold and smelly. It is the smell of boys' feet. Mr. Dibble comes into the changing room as we fight to get our heads into our tight gold football shirts. He's wearing a nasty navy tracksuit with his coaching badge pinned to the top pocket. We're not fooled. George saw him buy the badge from the local car boot sale in the summer holidays . Everyone sits down on the benches except me. It takes me a couple of seconds to realise what I should be doing.

" Sit down!" Mr. Dibble shouts. So I do. We wait for the team talk. I must try to listen carefully. "This is going to be a difficult game," he says in his serious manager's voice. "We have a number of inexperienced players and Wilcox Junior School is a quality team.

" He looks at me to check that I am listening. He then turns to Michael. "Michael, I want you to play as a sweeper. Nicky and Jake, you will play as wing backs. I want you to use the channels effectively." I am confused. Where are these channels?

"Last Pick, you will be at the bottom of the diamond in the midfield area." I'm lost. What diamond? What is he talking about? He continues. "Remember boys, I want to see
some pride out on the pitch. Let's go." We cheer as we leave the changing room. We're grateful that he has stopped talking. I turn to Michael. "Where do I play?" I ask shyly. " Don't worry, Joe. Just play in front of me," he replies.

For the next forty-five minutes, I run and run like one of those beautiful headless chickens. I run, I jump, I kick. I even touch the ball; twice! This is better than I imagined.
Better than all my day dreams. By half time, we are losing 4-0. We walk back to the changing room. Mr. Dibble is already waiting .We all sit down quietly on the benches. I feel very content.

"Why are you smiling, Last Pick?" Mr. Dibble shouts. He points at me and repeats the
question. Should I tell him the truth? I am very happy. I have enjoyed every minute. The shouting, the sound of the whistle, falling on grass, even their goals. I consider my position carefully. Maybe the truth is not a good idea. So I bend my head down to hide my smile. "You are all a disgrace. An embarrassment to the school and to your families." My smile gets wider. My happy genes are out of control. He continues to
shout. I look across to Michael. He starts to smile.

Before long, the whole team seems to be smiling. Then someone starts to giggle and before Mr. Dibble can make any tactical switches, the changing room is full of laughter. Mr. Dibble's face starts to change colour. Firstpink, then red and finally mauve. He takes off his sweatshirt and throws it on the floor. We all go quiet. He swiftly turns and storms out of the changing room. We all look at each other sheepishly.

"Where's he gone?" asks Michael. " To manage England," I quip. Everyone laughs. We play the second half without Mr. Dibble's astute tactical speeches. We lose another three goals. But we do win two corners. I skip home.

Chapter 5 - Home Reports

"Well, how did it go?" my dad asks hopefully. "Lost 7-0, " I report. " And we were lucky to get nil". He smiles. "Well, at least it won't take you long to clean your football
boots," he says, pointing to my feet. The embarrassment! I had forgotten to wear my new boots. I had played the whole game in my school shoes. My debut for the school team played in brown leather school shoes. I look up. Dad has a massive grin. "Dad, What's for dinn....?" I start to ask. " Mum's cooking," he answers. A perfect end
to a perfect day. 2520 words

(January 2007)