12 Yards Out

by Javi Reddy

  She mournfully looked at the steel cylinders. She lowered her head, having lost what little hope she had gained a few minutes back. She wished the carrier had crushed her. Vinny, then, would not have had that pleasure.

  27 September 2013. 6:03 PM

  Chicken a la king was on the menu, although James was sure that Jay would appreciate something slightly spicier on the palette. Unfortunately, as far as his culinary exploits went, James was incapable of whipping up something special. He wasn’t even sure if he was capable of whipping up chicken a la king. Jay gobbled down his first plate. If he’d served the boy fish and peanut butter sandwiches, he’d probably have devoured it.

  “You should chew your food at the least,” James told him maternally.

  “You should join me.”

  “I’m not that hungry.”

  “Let me guess, you’d prefer a drink?”

  “Well, I had to get something for myself from the store. This isn’t just about you.”

  James pulled out a bottle of J&B from a brown paper bag and placed it on the table. Jay rolled his eyes and continued with his mouth half-filled:

  “There are whiskey glasses in the kitchen. Third cupboard to the right.”

  One drank, the other ate. Jay held the spoon with his left hand and James forced him to use his right. He had to force the old memory back. Jay spilt soggy carrots, peas and small pieces of chicken onto the table as he tried to place the spoon into his mouth. After dinner, James made him write. They did the whole alphabet. It looked as though a skunk that had digested laxatives had taken over the page.

  “Again,” James told him after he slowly improved on letters. “But this time, write your name. Your full name.”

  “Who made you acting principal?”

  James gave him a stern look, revelling in his new role. Jay’s writing was near hopeless when he had to string together more than two letters. James poured himself a whiskey. Jay failed, so he poured another. He failed again and again, and James’ beloved bottle grew emptier again and again. Soon, it was out. And so was James.

  When he awoke in the morning, he noticed that Jay had fallen asleep at the table. There were no less than 50 pages filled with ugly scribbles that he’d tried to pass off as his name. James carried him to bed. Walking back to clear the dining room table, he came across a page that he had missed. Jay must have been sleeping on it. It was blank, except for the centre where the writing, still not decent, was far better than any other attempt.

  It read: Amritha. Progress.

  James cleaned the kitchen and dining room. He stayed sober all the way up to 11:45 AM when Jay eventually rose. “You hungry? Want some scrambled eggs?”

  “How long did I sleep for?”

  “Long enough. I’m sure it’s been a while since you’ve had some decent shut-eye like that. Did you have the dream again?”

  Jay stretched his arms out wide. “Surprisingly, no.” Progress.

  “We need to get you more practice today.” Jay glanced at the empty table.

  “I really don’t want to hold another pen.”

  “Good. ’Cos today, you’re gonna kick a ball.”

  Jay sat at the table, elbows firmly placed on the tablecloth. It was not a restless stillness. It was a brewing fear.

  “The hardest part is the start. And you did that yesterday. Think of it as the first day on the comeback trail.”

  Jay had nothing to say.

  “You worked all night and wrote something worth writing.” James flipped the page up in the air.

  “That’s fine. But learning football again? I don’t know if it’s going to happen. And do we have to label it a comeback?”

  “We can call it whatever you want, kid.” It was slightly chilly outside in the back, which was more than enough of an excuse for them to start another time. James opposed any more procrastination. They kicked and kicked and kicked. Jay failed and failed and failed. But they kicked some more. And Jay didn’t fail as much. He slowly began to trap the ball better, using the inside of his right foot to caress the ball inward. He hit the ball back to James, cleaner than before, finding the instep of his right shoe and not the toe. The power was still lacking, but the technique was growing. And technique was everything.

  “Okay, I’m just gonna come out and say it.” Jay looked at James.

  “Say what?”

  “Can we please cut your hair?”

  Jay held out a long strand and raised his eyes up to it.

  “I guess, it never really bothered me. Does it bother you?”

  “Well, not really. But it shows some sort of discipline. Like you’re starting to take pride in your appearance again. Which means that you want to be your old self.”

  “You get all of that from a haircut?”

  They trekked upstairs to his room and not long after, James was cautiously holding a pair of thin black scissors above Jay, in front of his nightstand.

  “You look more nervous than I do. Surely, that’s not the best of signs?” James exhaled heavily.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? This was your idea after all.”

  “How short do you want it?”

  “Just a bit of the top. Thank you very much.”

  “Okay. Here goes…”

  James found a decent rhythm and the tiny shears moved through Jay’s thick, black hair slickly and evenly. Was he looking in the wrong field for work? Hair on Tait? He could see it in neon lights as bright as the Parlour’s. After several minutes, Jay’s hair was now a decent length, although James still felt that a little more could be taken off the sides.

  “Okay, fine. There’s a machine in the third drawer.”

  “Now, you’re talking, lad. Number 2 should do it.”

  James excitedly grabbed the machine and plugged it into the double adapter by the nightstand. He scattered more old newspapers from the classified section around the bottom of Jay’s chair. He placed a thin layer of oil on the machine’s blade before placing the number two guard over it.

  In the end, James didn’t seem to have as much control with the machine as he did with the scissors. It took him longer, but he just about got a decent length on the side and at the back. He placed a small hand mirror behind Jay, so he could judge the job worthy or not.

  “You sure the back is as even? The sides look fine, but is the back the same?”

  James couldn’t seem to get it right, thanks to an annoying patch at the back that was in the dead centre.

  “There seems to be an area at the back that is being a bitch.”

  “So, why don’t you sleep with it then?”

  “I have a machine in my hands. Be smart.”

  “Just do it number one on the sides and back.”

  The patch eventually came out and James’ heart skipped a beat.

  “Oh no…”

  “What have you done now?”

  “I didn’t do anything. He did it.”

  James lifted the mirror up again to Jay. At the back of the boy’s head was a little v with a circle around it.

  Chapter 15

  28 September 2013. 1:13 PM

  Layla vacuumed the Rosebank apartment as James lay on his couch. They agreed on setting up shop here, since Vinny knew of Layla’s place in Morningside. Rosebank would offer them a much needed respite. For now.

  “We need to put up some decent curtains. And we need new plates and glasses. The ones in the kitchen look like they’ve got mud in them.”

  “Whatever you want, babe. Whatever you want.”

  “And we should probably get a bed in here.”

  James wanted to argue. The only remaining strand of his pride lay within his couch. It was the only thing he’d not needed Layla’s help with. He rubbed his temple and thought about Jay’s own scar. They were a family—the three of them. Jay and James had Vinny’s trademark on their heads, while Layla had his cruel mark on her cheek. They were bound by one man’s mark.

  “This is as close a clue as we could possibly have come to. I
wonder if he always leaves scars like these behind.”

  “He just wants to make it known that he’s got the better of you,” Layla ventured. “Or worse, he’s coming to get the better of us.”

  They speculated for a while longer before James helped her clean up the sections that the vacuum couldn’t reach—by getting down and using a brush and dustpan. Afterwards, Layla made him a ham-and-lettuce sandwich and a Greek salad for herself. She told him more about Jay and how events had begun to unravel all those months back.

  19 June 2013. Is that our number seven?

  The rain pelted down, but it could not dampen their spirits—or their talent.

  Layla did not really mind getting wet. The water trickling down her face cleansed her, helping her leave the normal world and its countless anxieties behind. Today, she was soaking up the atmosphere. Another victory for Rosebank and another bag of goals for their super striker. All in front of an impeccably behaved school crowd that might have been a little petulant after being drenched. But victory lends a certain euphoria.

  Rosebank headmaster and now avid umbrella clencher, James McArthur, had more than enough cause to celebrate, apart from his dapper three-piece suit not getting a drop on it. Not only was the form of his school’s football team feared and envied throughout Gauteng, but the school as a whole had presented itself in an immaculate manner throughout the year at public events. It was enough to make any headmaster smile. Besides, everyone loved a winning team and Rosebank always won.

  Today’s game was great. Jay had scored four goals, in spite of not being on top of his game. He seemed to have moved a little sluggishly on the field, almost as though he had become drained after his season’s efforts for the team.

  It was very early for a Saturday morning, in fact not yet 8 AM. While the rest of the world was still cosily intertwined in their blankets, football fans had gathered in the school. Zondi eyed Jay from the touchline, and the coach remained rooted to one spot for a while. A slight concern had besieged him. He knew his players well. Where Jay would usually glide across the surface like a warship, his movements this morning were those of a rusty lawnmower. No matter, it had still been a stellar performance by Zondi’s boys and an 8-2 score-line demonstrated their obvious superiority.

  With two minutes to go, the ball was harmlessly passed back to the opposing goalkeeper, who should have dealt with it easily. However, he took his eye off the ball, and it skidded past him on the wet surface. Always on high alert, Jay was not about to squander the opportunity. Leaping forward towards the ball like a jaguar, he got there well before the desperate keeper and rolled the ball into the empty net.

  Everybody celebrated their favourite son’s latest goal as passionately as the previous four. They couldn’t wait for him to run towards them and celebrate in front of their hearty screams. But as he drew nearer to them, he knew something was wrong. And when something like that was wrong, he knew there was nothing he could do to put it right. He fell in front of the whole school.

  Not many knew what was going on—it was the first time most of them had witnessed a seizure. Even the personification of calmness, OMZ, was caught off guard. It wasn’t until they’d seen it themselves, did they realise how severe it was on his body. How horrifying the sight was of him, trembling ferociously on the muddy ground. The rain spat on a half-conscious Jay—his face in mud and his back to the crowd. Number seven, down and out.

  28 September 2013. 2:04 PM

  James lay next to Layla on the floor just in front of the couch. They were now digging into some chocolate-chip ice-cream. They couldn’t remember the last time they’d had ice-cream without the liquor.

  “I’ve got something that I want to show you. Toss me my handbag, won’t you?”

  James did as he was told and Layla took out a strange contraption that she held aloft to him. “What on earth is that?” “A penis enlarger.”

  James’ eyes widened. Layla snorted out with laughter. “Relax. I’m going to teach you how to drink today. Properly.”

  She slid away from him and sprung up towards the kitchen. She brought back a bottle of Jack Daniels, a bottle of passion fruit and a bottle of tequila. She held out the wooden contraption, which was rectangular in shape and had two chambers on opposite ends of it. She opened the first chamber and poured a shot of Jack Daniels into it. She then poured a shot of passion fruit into the other chamber.

  “I picked this lovely, little device up when I was travelling in Asia.”

  “When the hell were you travelling in Asia?”

  “Whilst you were at home, drinking and not finding a job” “That could have been any day of the year.”

  She gently lifted the device away and tilted it up to her mouth.

  “It works like this. As you lift this toy up to 90 degrees, the first chamber will open up and the liquid will flow seamlessly into your mouth. Only once the first chamber is emptied, the second one will open up and the liquid in there will immediately follow through. It’s one sweet movement. Quick and deadly. You have to drink whatever’s in the first one before you get to sample the second one.”

  “I have no problem drinking suitcases, darling. We both know I’ll outdrink you if it comes to that.”

  “Who says I’m making you suitcases? The passion fruit is for me. This is for you.” She held out the bottle of tequila towards him.

  “I put the chillies in a few days ago. Just to brew.”

  “And what are those leaves inside there?”

  “Mint leaves. They negate a bit of the heat. I know what a virgin you are when it comes to spices.”

  “How kind of you.”

  “You ready?”

  “You really want me to chase Jack with tequila? That tequila?”

  “Yes. But what would a virgin do?”

  She poured the Jack into the first chamber which meant the tequila would be the last thing he tasted. James closed his eyes and thought about the coolness of the Ice-Cream Parlour. He tried to hide behind its rich, enchanting flavours and its utter joy. The Jack went down smooth enough as he pictured himself nestling within a booth at the parlour. He was yanked away from his safe-house as the tequila shot out immediately after. It stung his larynx and nostrils. His eyes watered as his throat and ears ached. Layla laughed her usual happy-go-lucky laugh before executing her next suitcase without any trouble.

  “It was just the beginning for Jay,” she continued pouring another suitcase. This time, she showed mercy and gave him the Jack and passion fruit combo.

  “After that, it was a madhouse. Parents phoning in with complaints about their children being exposed to too much drama like that at such a young age. Bloody turncoats. These were the same ‘fans’ who cheered him as though they had raised him. Then, scouts started isolating themselves, coming up with petty excuses such as their clubs didn’t want to put a strain on the boy. Strain? They didn’t mind pushing him before, now suddenly, it was all about strain?”

  “So, what happened next?”

  “Well, Zondi stood by Jay. He always did. He took a lot of flak for that, but he was never going to abandon one of his boys.”

  “Good old OMZ.”

  “Unfortunately, Headmaster McArthur’s hands were tied. The pressure from the school’s governing body and corporate sponsors became too hefty. It made Rosebank look bad, as though they were heaping the expectations onto a kid. So much so that his health had suffered. Jay pleaded to everyone that he wanted to play and that he’d taken better care of himself. But how do you quell something that you’re born with? His meds were clearly not enough which meant his pleas fell on deaf ears.”

  “McArthur should have stood by him.”

  “I really think he wanted to. But Jay had lied. Lied about his condition and kept it from everyone. Even from a coach who trusted him so much. They make you fill in medical forms at school for a reason. Imagine if he had an attack in the pool? Or in the gym when he was lifting a heavy bench-bar over his chest? So by simply omitting a tick from the �
��epilepsy’ box, he had made everything very un-simple. The school were only going to lean one way in their stance on the issue.”

  “So, what did our beloved number seven do?”

  “He left the team. He didn’t want Zondi to lose his job. He knew that the man would fight for him until the end, even if it meant his own end.”

  She poured another suitcase and downed it from her wooden toy. “I tried to support him where I could…”

  22 July 2013. Miss me?

  “I’ll go if you go?”

  “It isn’t crushing for you.”

  “Must you be so dramatic?” Jay scowled at Layla. “Oh, come on. It may even be fun.”

  “Fun? For whom? Pulling my nails out with pliers might actually be more fun.”

  “Well, I was wrong. You certainly aren’t the drama queen. Come on, Jay. You’re still part of the team. Your support for them counts. If they see you in the crowd, I’m sure it’ll give them a lift.”

  Layla stood over him, as he sat on a couch at the Vida Cafe, flicking through the tracks on his iPod.

  “Okay, who am I kidding? I don’t know why I’m even trying to convince you to go. It’s all so senseless. You know how much I hate that mindless sport, anyway. It’s just a bunch of guys running after a ball, so desperately that they’ll do anything to get it. Even if it means kicking everything but the ball! Honestly, what is the point? It’s all so…hmmm what’s the word? Overrated.”

  The track switching ceased.

  “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  He drummed his fingers against his iPod restlessly.

  “I mean, I don’t understand how it is the world’s most popular sport. And I don’t know why you’re buying into the farce. But that’s not even the major issue here. This is all so hypocritical don’t you think? Where’s your fire superstar? I mean you talk it up so much and then you let it go so easily.”