Peter McFeely

As he played, he felt the medal, slick with sweat, bounce on his chest and the fraying green, white and blue striped ribbon cut at his neck. This was the first time he had actually worn it, having kept it in a drawer since his brother gave it to him. He wore it to give himself conviction tonight, to carry out his plan once the gig had ended and the bar had cleared. Already though, he was tense at the thought of the conversation. Unsure if he could go through with it. He’d had doubts for weeks but his uncertainty came to a head when he saw the couple sitting to the side of the makeshift dance floor. It was obvious why he’d noticed them – they stood out like sore thumbs. Much older than most of the bar’s patrons but considerably better presented than the regulars of their age. Ben thought she was beautiful. Yet her partner barely spoke to her. He knew it was her partner because of the way they looked at each other when they did speak. Like they were lost. He didn’t know why they were in the bar, but it looked they were trying to save something. Something which was falling apart. Was everything destined to fall apart?

–

Light slipped into the burrow but the air remained sweaty and claustrophobic. Ben stuffed his head deeper into the blankets and pretended he couldn’t hear his dad calling from the foot of the stairs. He felt the tear well in his eye and made a mitten from his pyjama sleeve to wipe it away, before deciding it might add authenticity. He heard footsteps on the wooden landing and the creaking of hinges as the door was pushed open. “Ben! Time to get up, you’ll be late!” It took him a few seconds to realise his son was within the duvet cocoon. He made to shake free the six year old larva when a small moan made it’s way through layers of down. Gently, he pulled back the blanket to reveal his son’s face: hair matted down, reddened cheeks and teary eyes. “Daaaaaaad. I don’t feeeeeeeeel wellllll.” A long slow moan. Ben’s dad cocked his head like an inquisitive pigeon and surveyed his son. Tentatively, he crouched by the bed. “What’s wrong little man? You remember what today is don’t you?” “Yes…” Ben’s voice croaked and he felt another tear well. He paused for a few seconds. “But I don’t feeeeeel welllllll!” His dad continued to study him, like a primitive being contemplating fire for the first time. He raised the back of his hand to Ben’s forehead. “Hmmm. You are quite warm.” As any six year old would be had they buried their head under blankets and pillows for hours in an early summer morning. “Ah-huh” Ben’s voice cracked. “So you don’t think you can play today?” Ben bit his lower lip and shook his head. It jolted loose the tears and they rolled down his cheeks. The studious pose broke. Ben’s dad slid from a crouch onto the bed and cradled Ben in his arms. “There, there. It’ll be OK. I know you want to play but it’s alright…” He gently rubbed Ben’s back and smoothed the tufty hair. The reassuring touch made Ben feel better but still he silently cried into his dad’s shirt. He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, until gently his dad eased him into a sitting position against the headboard. He stretched his t-shirt to dab at Ben’s cheeks and let him blow his nose in it. “Your brother must be finished his breakfast by now. I’d better go tell him that you’re sick and not playing. He’ll be really upset.” He was cut off by the shout from the bottom of the stairs. “Dad!! Where are you? Where’s Ben? We have to go! We’re going to be late!” Ben started to cry again and, as he spluttered, a bubble blew from his right nostril before bursting with a pop. His dad stood and looked down forlornly. He peeled his t-shirt off and used it to mop Ben’s face once more. He kissed him on the head. “I’d better go. I’ll send your mum up with some medicine.” He paused at the door “We’ll bring back your medal.” Ben heard the footsteps on the stairs and muffled exchanges between his parents and brother. The front door opened and closed. As the car engine ignited, he heard the lighter steps of his mum climbing the stairs. He slid from the headboard, pulling the covers once more over his head and cried freely into his dad’s shirt which he clutched to his face.

The day before the final, Ben was in the garden, practicing. He kicked the ball against the wall, trying to control it as it rebounded. He spun and aimed a shot at the hedge, goalposts formed by two battered shrubs, devoid of leaves and branches broken by years of brotherly sporting abuse. The ball sliced wildly off the outside of his trainer and spun away into the manicured flowerbed of tall bushes his mum had managed to preserve. It bounced amongst the topiary before wedging itself under an overflowing rose bush. Lifting a thin stick, he tried to prise it free, but to no avail. Lying on his side, he swung a leg under the bush, succeeding only in kicking free some of his mum’s previously intact flowers. While flat on his belly and crawling deep into the bush he heard bikes fall to the ground on the paving steps behind the back door. A ball bounced on the grass and was tapped backwards and forwards by leather trainers. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.” “Me neither, it’s going to be a great game. I’ve heard they are very good.” His brother Michael and his friend Gary. Ben smiled when he mentally corrected himself: his teammates.
“We’re very good too!”
“Haha. Do you think we can win?”
“Yeah of course. Don’t you?”
“Yeah…” The ball was passed back and forth. “Is your brother playing?”
“Of course he is, he plays every week.”
“Right…” The ball stopped moving.
“Don’t make that face. He’s my brother.”
“Yeah… but he’s not much use is he? He’s just too young.” The garden was silent for a few moments.
“Well, maybe. Yeah, look probably. But he’s my brother. I like playing with him. It’s fun and he’s only going to get better playing with us.”
The strokes of the ball resumed.
“But not in the cup final…”
“Mmmm…” the ball tap-tap-tapped as Michael juggled it, thinking over Gary’s point. He trapped it under one foot and passed it across the garden.
“Yeah, look, he’s useless. But he’s my brother. If we don’t win the final because of him, whatever. He’s still my brother. Hey, are you hungry? Want something to eat?”
“Yeah” The leather slapped and the hedge rattled as the ball was slammed into the goal.
It was a long time before Ben backed himself out of the bush and dragged his feet through the soil, ball tucked under his arm. He looked at the hedge; his brother’s ball was nestled in a thicket of leaves. He dropped his behind him and made for the house.

He had spent the day of the final in bed, suitably miserable to convince his mum that he was genuinely ill. He wasn’t sure why it took his dad and Michael so long to come home. He thought he must have been missing a giant party. In fact, Michael had insisted his dad take them home via the shop which provided the winners’ medals. He used his own pocket money to buy Ben a matching medal and had each of their names inscribed on the back. The medal was one of his most prized possessions, along with the smile and hug his brother delivered with the news that they had emerged victorious with a last minute goal. Ben was devastated to have missed the game, but knew the result would have been different had he played. He never played for the team again. He barely kicked a football full stop, choosing instead the most distant pastime he could think of: learning to play guitar.

–

Ben watched Marcus, perched on the railing which ran around the makeshift stage, trumpet raised in one hand above his head like the victory salute of a freedom fighter. He felt a smile trying to break through his brood, but it struggled, a twitch of the lips all that surfaced. He felt the medal throb against his shirt as he watched Marcus thunder around the stage, leaping onto railings and speakers, like a wrestler scaling turnbuckles in each corner, gesticulating with his trumpet and saluting the crowd. Marcus had been the closest thing he’d had to a brother since Michael had left town for university four years ago. He promised himself he wouldn’t lie to Marcus, like he had to Michael when he was six; that he’d be honest. As the band played out the song he turned to them, arms spread wide and silhouetted by the flashing lights of mobile phones, he appeared as though on a crucifix. A stage light illuminated his face and revealed an ear-to-ear beaming smile.

Once more the doubts raced through his minds. Ben really hoped Marcus would not cry when he told him he was quitting the band.