Physical Education

I don’t often write autobiographical pieces, but thought I’d purge in literary form. I have a lot of memories of physical education, this one sticks with me the most.

The out of tune cellos had faded into the evaporating rain. We were on the pitted concrete pitch penned in like caged beasts. I was upfront. I was never upfront. I was normally just in goal or jail or some other torturous position. I normally had a note or an excuse. But my excuses didn’t wash today, unlike my PE kit which was “in the wash.” I had been forced to borrow some ill-fitting kit. Shorts that were too small, and a shirt that was too baggy. 

Buoyed by boys I didn’t usually like, I was trying tackles and kicks and my confidence was growing. Faster and harder I ran. My heart pounding like a drum. A beat and a…crack. My heart beating faster as the panic rushed through my body, followed by a wave of sheer pain. 

On my knees and crying. Heckled on my the boys that cheered me on minutes before. 

I limped back to Lovell, “Sir, I can’t play. It’s my ankle.”

“Get back on the pitch”

I was the boy who cried wolf. 

I hobbled back up the yard. The concrete was harder than before. Each step sending a shot through my whole body. 

I had to choose between running and kicking. I couldn’t do both. I could barely do either. 

The last five minutes of the game was by far the longest forty years in human existence. I can barely remember the minutes after the game. How I got changed, or how I got home. 

All I remember is that by the time I got home, my ankle was in plaster. Broken.

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