After such a stressful draining week, this little lad decided to engage himself in football, or soccer, as our American friends would call it. On a sunny Friday full of expectation for the imminent weekend packed with programs on television, his body felt a sudden surge of adrenalin pumping through his veins. Forgetting the firm scolding he might receive on returning back home, his white shirt turned brown within minutes of kicking the ‘case three’ ball. Like the bison, Micheal Essien, he gave intricate passes that amazed his compatriots and onlookers. Even the slightest of contacts from his friends sent him sprawling to the ground, mimicking the occasional remonstration of the David Beckham’s and Christian Ronaldo’s.
He had absolutely no reason to be scared of the prospects of daddy giving him a sound whooping for “making himself dirty and unkempt” as his mother would often say. Out of nowhere, his dad lay hold on the collar of his beautifully browned school shirt. “You are playing football again, again, again” his father shouted, as the many “agains” that followed resonated through his ears with the many strokes he inflicted. Apparently, he had broken a stick of a nearby branch just as he cited this stubborn son taking control of his midfield. Instead of admiring his dexterity on the field of play, he saw an incorrigible boy unwilling to take instructions from his father.
As a disciplined daddy to the core, he literally dragged his eleven-year old towards his white Opel Vectra amidst jeering and mockery from his seniors and mates alike. “What have I done?” , this helpless young boy thought to himelf, for one simple reason. He couldn’t understand his father’s utter disgust towards the most popular game played by majority of the pupil population. “Does it mean the other children have no parents or is daddy going mad?, he thought to himself. The answer to this million-dollar question would have saved him at that very moment but unfortunately it came from nowhere and no one.
“Daddy I’m sorry”, were the only string of words he could muster, considering the plethora of pangs his body had come into contact with. This continuous petition rang through the car as they both headed home for the consummation of this momentous occasion. Full of rage and indignation, daddy asked his son to kneel dawn on the terrazzo floor with his hands reaching the skies. As confused as a barren Fernando Torress, this boy wondered someone to save his plight, because mummy had travelled and won’t be back until Sunday evening. His father hurriedly rushed outside to continue what he had wonderfully started.