The Boots

A Story by Pól

This is the beginning of a story I'm thinking of writing. Not sure if I'm going to continue. Would value feedback.

The boots

When did it start? I have no idea. I remember precious little of my childhood. Unlike many of my friends, I cannot recall the first football match I saw, nor rhyme off the names of teachers in my formative years. My earliest memories begin later, and are hazy. With the passing of years I tend to have increasing doubts about the veracity of the memories that do survive. Such as the moment it suddenly dawned on me that everyone, including the people I loved, would die. It hit me like a eureka moment whilst I was sprawled on the living room floor, playing with Finn. I immediately burst into tears, a rare thing indeed in my life, my young mind unable to cope with the magnitude of my realisation. I sobbed uncontrollably, as my brother’s and sister’s scratched their heads or laughed. Mum grabbed me up in her arms to comfort me, only asking what had upset me so when the wailing ceased. The two of us were the only people in the room who weren’t totally embarrassed. Thankfully Dad wasn’t home. Probably working, or in the pub. He spent the vast majority of his time at those two locations. Now I wonder; did it really happen like that?

Cynics would argue that my deficient memory is a psychological trick I have developed to protect myself from events that are too difficult to deal with. I doubt this theory; I’m not that clever. Certainly my childhood was tough, but not deprived as my affluent friends would have it. My parents were decent and loving. I’m sure that they would have protected me when I was most vulnerable. But can I really be certain?

My overriding memory of Mum is that she was omni-present, as if an invisible chain tied her to family and duty. When things were tough and getting to her, or when her “nerves were bad”, she would threaten to take off to “Bessie Bell”, which I believe is a Mountain in the Sperrins. We knew she didn’t mean it; it was just her safety valve. She was totally reliable and dependable, and somehow provided for us much better than Dad’s paltry wages, much of which was spent in the pub, could ever allow.

Most of my memories begin when I had become a “glamour boy”, the moniker attributed to working-class kids who managed to get a place in the local Grammar School, with a handful of recollections, framed in varying degrees of clarity, from earlier times. I can date the first involving Mum fairly accurately, as it must have happened in the early part of my fifth year at primary school, when I would have been nine. It was at this time that I and my eager classmates were to be introduced to what for some was a dalliance, but for me and many others became a life-long passion; Gaelic Football. We commenced our education in the skills of the noble art, continuing until we left the care of our almer mater three years later. Every Wednesday afternoon, whatever the weather, and it was mostly bad, was spent honing the basic skills and preparing each of us, whatever our innate ability, or in my case lack of it, to make the most of ourselves. Those boys who for whatever insane reason did not wish to participate were duly delivered to the Parish Priest to train to be alter boys. For me, there wasn't a choice to make. I often wondered how the Monsignor gained enough recruits to satisfy his needs.

But now it looked like I was joining the pious. This had nothing to do with Mum’s strong faith; she had even named me and my eldest brother after the Popes who had been appointed shortly after our respective arrivals on this Earth. I often wondered why so many of my peers shared my first name; in my primary school class of 32 students, no less than 14 were Pauls. Confusing.

No. The true cause of my potential shift to a spiritual calling rested with money, or to be more precise, the lack of it. Our training sessions and matches took place on grass, which demanded football boots. These weren’t particularly expensive at the time, but we still couldn’t afford a pair. Mum had told me not to worry, as she had kept a few pairs that had been used by my brothers. But bizarrely this turned out to be a false hope, as our teacher advised us that given the time and effort he was going to have to put into this, all players were required to have a pair of new boots, to be replaced each year. He emphasised that this edict would be strictly applied, and no exceptions would be made. Back then I was too naïve to realise that this was the first of many impediments that would be deliberately placed in the path of undesirables. After all our footballers represented the school, and we couldn’t have its reputation tarnished by working-class types!

Again Mum did her best. She would save every penny, and I'd have the boots for Christmas, if not before. But I knew this would be too late. Rules were rules; pupils had to choose their path at the beginning of the year; football or religion. The school didn’t allow one to chop or change, and even if it did, Monsignor would never agree to release one of his captives. I had to confirm my choice now, and not having the required new boots effectively made the decision for me.

I had thought that somehow Mum would make this right. She would sort something out, she always did. But the day came and I was packed off to school without the requisite footwear. It wasn’t to be. I felt awful but I didn’t blame Mum. I knew she would have done everything she could. As for Dad, well…

When I arrived I knew that I would have to tell Sir that I wouldn’t be playing football after all, that my name needed to be erased on the lengthy list on the blackboard and added to the much shorter one. I decided to leave it to the last minute, even if this did make Sir angry. It wasn’t that I thought some miracle would happen, I simply wanted to delay the moment when reality would set in. That moment had now arrived. Just as I began to raise my hand I noticed a familiar figure through the classroom window. Head down against the persistent rain, walking purposively towards the school. “What was she doing here? Could she?...

A moment later Sir rose to answer a single knock on the door. He instructed us to put our heads down, opened the door slightly to identify the caller, before going outside so that she remained unseen by the class. Again I didn’t notice how different his actions were compared to previous occasions when the parents of well-to-do kids had visited. I was too excited to take in such trivial detail. In what seemed like an enternity, but in reality was probably no more than a few seconds, Sir re-entered the room carrying something in a small plastic bag. He came straight to my desk, and I think he was smiling. I am not sure about this, it’s the type of detail I wonder if I have added myself with the passage of time. He handed me the bag, without saying anything. By now I had no doubt as to its contents, but nevertheless my heart was pounding as I peeked inside. There rested a pair of football boots; not just any old pair but beautiful leather boots with changeable studs to tackle any conditions. I was so shocked: “Christ they must have cost a fortune; how did she do it? I was so elated I didn’t worry about how my poor mother had managed to pay for such a luxury or whether she would be able to repeat this miracle in future years. Even if I had I would have been sure that she would sort something out. I was so relieved and grateful to her I just wanted to cry, but of course I didn’t.

© 2013 Pól

Author's Note

Ignore any grammar/ spelling issues

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Circe

I thought it was a wonderful start.... the gaelic football mania in the youth.. very fun to read.. the excitement in the boy to play football was realistically portrayed, causing quite a stir of emotions in the reader and the suspense you delivered in whether or not he will get to play was excellent... I can really empathise with the mother and the boy.... the family life sounds interesting.. it's always hard to read about the struggles of the young child with dreams because you want them to have everything, and you want them to be happy and not have to worry about anything.. I guess this shows a lot of realism in how a person grows through experience.. and the kind of things that weight on children's minds.. I especially liked the religion vs football thing.. from a boy's perspective, that's very funny.. it's not a dilemma I've ever faced.. you make some acute observations about culture that stay in my mind. this is brilliantly written..