THE FOOTBALL TRIAL

Oliver's head meets with a second crushing blow....

Oliver had never been what he would have looked on as athletic, and yet it was the presence of an athletic body that seemed to attract the attention of that proportion of the human race that was delightfully female. They weren’t, on the whole, interested in academic achievement or any kind of intellectual achievement but rather what rippled on a boy’s body when he was wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, and one thing that ate away at his self-confidence was an absence of obvious ripples.

Oliver was pretty sure that he didn’t look so good dressed for sports or even for summer. For a start he was big for his age when he was eleven and although he knew that he’d lost just about every trace of the awkwardness he’d been left with by his months of coma in hospital after the vicious attack that had ended in the death of his foster-mother, he knew he was no great athlete. He was aware of a general pudginess and wished it would go away, but pudginess is one thing that wishing can’t influence unless that wishing is accompanied by dietary considerations and a smidgen of exercise.

Oliver wasn’t, though, what an observer would have described as fat. Well-built was the term usually applied to him, and that just about described him accurately. Added to his general pudginess was the matter of height. He was one of the taller boys in the entire first year. He was, in fact, perfect goal-keeper material in the eyes of the sports master, who had only days to put together a team of first year boys for a match against a strong team from the other side of town.

Mr Martin was a determined sportsman of the armchair variety. He had gone to college and followed a course designed to turn out a PE teacher at a college that specialised in the production of PE teachers. The downside had been the need for him to put in an appearance in at least one college team, and he spent most of the three year course in the cross country running team because the alternatives, football and rugby, scared the living daylights out of him. And hockey: that was a definite no-no, though he did allow a little cricket during the summer, which was blessed with a long holiday away from every kind of real sport of the participatory variety.

To his mind it was beyond excitement to follow his favourite teams on the terraces or television (though back in his student days there were no specialised sports channels and hardly any proper sport on the BBC or ITV. If you discounted tennis), but actually doing it might spoil his coiffure and quiff.

But the boys in his care were allowed no such personal frailties. Whatever their personal opinions he could see no reason why each and every one of them shouldn’t be made to slog it out on the muddy games fields at least once a week, and be willingly available for membership in the school teams should they be required.

And he thought that Oliver might well be required.

And in addition he might be required as a goal-keeper, because his size meant that with no effort at all he would be able to block a small percentage of the balls flying towards him, and if he developed even a modicum of skill he’d be brilliant.

So he listed Oliver for a trial as team goal-keeper, and Oliver had to attend. There was no way out. Not even the serious head injury that he’d recovered from could be used as an excuse because he’d been released from hospital as fit and well, and to all normal intents and purpose he was. But he thought it worth mentioning anyway.

“I was in hospital sir, in a coma with a bad bead,” he said at the first opportunity.

“Have you been told you can’t play football?” asked Mr Martin with an expression on his face that was devoid of anything remotely like either empathy or sympathy. After all the only malady he had personal experience of was an unpleasant acquaintance with tonsilitis in his first year at college.

Oliver paused to think. The subject of field sports had never been discussed, at least not in his own hearing.

“No sir,” he mumbled.

“Then it’s no excuse is it, boy?” grinned Mr Martin, ruffling his hair in the most annoying way possible. “The trial is after school, and you will be there,” he concluded.

The trial consisted of Oliver standing between the goal-posts while Mr Martin kicked leather footballs at him, and not only were they leather they were wet leather, the field being wet from recent rains and the balls having been in use sporadically all afternoon.

The first few balls flew harmlessly past him even though he made convincing efforts to stop them. But he failed on account of both inexperience and a genuine fear of being struck by missiles that may well, in his opinion, have been approaching escape velocity as they careered towards him.

“You’ll need to try harder than that, boy,” growled Mr Martin, and he took several steps back and lumbered towards the next ball which he’d already placed on the penalty spot, preparing to give it everything he had. “Let’s see how you handle this one.”

That was the one that hit Oliver fair and square on the head.

He stopped it, all right. It bounced soggily off him and hurtled past the goal posts and out into the field where half a dozen boys chased after it. They chased, in fact, so far that none of them saw as Oliver crumpled like a felled tree and lay, senseless, on the mud whilst Mr Martin tried to work out how he could punish the boy for such idleness. It wasn’t until Oliver failed to stand up after a series of threats that normally aroused the most comatose boy failed to make him even blink that Mr Martin realised that something was awry.

It was indeed fortunate for Oliver that the headmaster was out on the field, black gown whipped by the wind behind him as he strolled around, keeping a weather eye on the football teacher about whom quite a few complaints had been made. And it was he who reacted swiftly and arranged for an ambulance to take the boy to hospital, especially when he noticed who the unconscious boy was and remembered full well that he had a history of medical problems to do with the head.

And it was he who collared Mr Martin and mentioned that he’d better have a good excuse for when the police arrived, as they were bound to, especially if the poor boy died on his way to hospital.

“Died?” stammered Mr Martin.

“Yes,” growled the headmaster, needing to shake the small amount of personal responsibility from his own shoulders, “after all, anything is possible, and the boy was ill-prepared...”

© Peter Rogerson 20.12.16