The Soccer Pitch

We were playing soccer in O’Gorman’s back field (the one that would soon sprout a crop of portables) in my final year of high school. Grade 12 and 13 boys were participating, each grade a team. How we came about this, I’ve no clue, but I remember it was extremely competitive. We wanted to show the older boys that we weren’t kids. They didn’t want to lose to a bunch of kids.

So, there was a fair bit of aggressive play. John D’Alessandri had possession of the ball, and was moving it up field. He was in range of the net, and set to kick. He kicked for all he was worth. He kicked so hard that when his foot swept the ground just short of the ball he broke his ankle. He didn’t just break it, he broke it and twisted it around until his foot faced backwards. He dropped, screaming. We rushed to help, but fully half of us were so sickened by the sight that we turned away. John lay there, arms wrapped around his head, continuing to scream until the endorphins began to kick in and we realized that he’d been screaming FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, over and over, longer at first, then rapidly, then breathlessly. Teachers rushed out of the buildings, brushed us aside. John continued his litany, despite being surrounded by a number of nuns, Sister Fay among them. It was the first time I’d ever seen them not correct someone’s language. When that thought passed my mind, I had to turn away and clutch at my mouth or I’d have begun to giggle. I felt it boiling up, and there was no way I was going to laugh in light of what was unfolding.
The ambulance came, collected him and left. Jodie Russell visited John at the hospital after school had let out. John had still not been attended to, as yet...but he had been pumped full of morphine upon arrival. He was sitting upright, his legs crossed, the leg sporting his backwards foot crossed over the other. “Jesus Christ,” John said to Jodie, “are they ever fuckin’ slow here! Look at that,” he railed, pointing at his foot, “look at it! That is so fuckin’ wrong.”