Long Big Scar: Get to Mr. McCarthy�s Wall

I had invented a game.

I felt a deep seated pride at my conquering of my miniscule attention span to focus on it and also that my game was enjoying a brief vogue and was the talk of play-time.

The premise of the game was that one players had to pit their physicality and dexterity against another's by running around the play-yard trying to evade their opponent with the ultimate aim of throwing a small ball past a goalkeeper into a goal, marked out by railings.

Genius.

I, being the only goalkeeper in the class, achieved popularity for the "originality" of the game and for being integral to defining the skill of the players. I was the one thing that was consistent to measure against (a coincidence?). Everyone wanted to play my game and those who were successful at it enjoyed notoriety. However, the players had started to make up their own rules, the "professionals" were now seeking rule changes to suit their own personal style such running fast, throwing hard or being able to ‘out-violence’ the opponent.

Enough was enough, I decided that a set of rules needs to be drawn up and a name was required so as not to confuse it with the other thousands of makeshift, and I daresay inferior, games that were borne from my original. I took one of my many notebooks and my favourite pen (my obsession with stationary remains to this day) from my tray and began to write down the rules of "throw ball". Twenty five years on, I can’t recall the rules but I'm sure they were just and fair. I made the mistake of writing them during a history lesson where the teacher, Mrs. Padmore (a fine woman, I discovered in later life), was giving an overview of street lamps in Victorian times. I am not making this up. I am glad to say I have removed this obscure trivia from my memory along with long division and, unfortunately, the front crawl.

Call me narrow minded, and maybe even arrogant, but I immediately assessed the lamp information as non essential as, obviously, my career would obviously orientated toward sport and sport-related ingenuity. Therefore, I saw this an ideal time to record the rules of my new sport without upsetting the skills needed for my future career. It turns out that this assumption was a bad move.

It turns out that Mrs. Padmore’s must have been a lamp fancier or some such as she caught me "mid rule scribing" and took away my pad and pen with a ticking off that accompanied any standard confiscation. I was furious. The words built up in my throat:

"You'll have to excuse me but I don't really see what bearing Victorian street lamps will have in my immediate or distant future. Far be it from me to contradict your venerable teachings but I think it useless, and quite frankly, uninteresting. I have decided to take the time and use it more effectively to invent my own ball game which will probably be the focus of media attention in the next Olympic games! Now please be a good educator and give me back my pad and pen and maybe, just maybe, I won't make any scathing comments about you in my autobiography!"

However, my actual words were (face beetroot in anger) :
“Huh, some teacher!”. Bad move, she went apeshit.

The worst thing about being in this situation is that the teacher cannot leave her class unattended, so she told me to go to the Headmaster and tell him what I had done. Not only had she ruined my chances of fame she was also casting me unto the gallows. The actual thought of the punishment would have been enough but the killer is is that I had to drag myself to my own shooting. ‘The Walk’ is only about fifty yards from the classroom to the Headmaster's office but it must have taken me a quarter of an hour whilst I dawdled. I ran over the situation in my mind from every perspective mentally documenting every step that I made. I decided that I had made the wrong choice of words and a simple disgruntled look would have sufficed, no teacher likes his or her ability or actions questioned by a pupil. I was ten for God's sake. I got to the headmaster's door and knocked it with the power I hoped would be encompassed in the punishment I was about to receive. I had forgotten that headmasters can smell errant children a mile away. The headmaster, ushered me in, regarded me with a look utter disgust, and eventually whispered menacingly, "What is it, Simon?".
"Mrs. Padmore sent me to see you Sir." I'm sure I squeaked.
"Why?"
"I was naughty in class and she sent me to tell you happened", plain sailing from here I thought, he'll get it out of me and then perhaps give me the ruler and that'll be the end of it. No problem.

That’s what I thought.

"Go outside, face my wall, your nose 3 inches from it and think about what you have done. Come back inside when you understand why you have been sent to me and then explain yourself."

What? That’s wasn't supposed to happen, I'm the one on top here. All of a sudden, I became very afraid. Perhaps he was rigging up the thumbscrews at this very moment, wiring up the electrodes to the generator and getting a confession ready for me to sign. Was his office soundproof? I wasn't equipped for mind games like this, I was ten years old and cocksure. This man was obviously trained in torture in some sort Gestapo School. Did he he have a German accent? I couldn't be sure. I stood facing the wall with my nose practically touching it, waiting for a bullet in the back to put me out of my misery. It never came.

How long do you wait to make him think that you understand your crime and you are ready to tell him the awful things that you have done. I didn't understand anything! Why would I understand the abstract concept of crime and punishment, right and wrong, respect for authority and all that business. I didn't even know the name of all my body parts, never mind psychological conjecture. I waited and thought about nothing until I broke and knocked his door again.

"Come in, Simon." (How did he know, he was surely omnipotent.) "Are you ready to tell me what you have done and accept a suitable punishment for it?"
Punishment? I scanned the desk for Thumbscrews, none, that at least was a bonus. I made a note not to sit on his obviously booby trapped chair.
"Yes sir." What's this? A melon growing in my throat? It made my eyes water and I could barely talk properly.
"Well", it was at this point he looked up from his work with his awesome and, frankly, 'horror film' frightening countenance bearing down on me as if he had shrunk me to the size that befitted a criminal such as myself.

The melon continued to grow.

"I made up a game, sir, and I was writing down the rules in my notebook during a history lesson." My throat was about to burst and I couldn't see straight from my salt water eyes. "Mrs. Padmore confiscated my pad and pen and I said 'Huh, some teacher'."
No sooner had I said the words left my lips he was at me like a shot, he picked up and bent me over his knee and whacked me bloody hard with his spade like hands. This went on for a few times until he put me down and shouted at me from four inches away,
"If you are ever disrespectful to your teachers again I will take down your trousers and slipper you! Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir". I understood alright. I was sent from the room to go back and apologise for my actions.

The walk back to the classroom was a strange time. My throat ached, my rear smarted and my eyes were watering and red raw. I must have looked as if he had sprayed CS Gas in my face.

But I smiled.

I looked back at his office, where my punishment was doled out, and then on to my classroom and three words sprang to my mind and found their way out of my smiling mouth.

"Was that it?"

So this was consequence. This was an idea of what happened when you stepped out of line and it didn't so bad.

That moment is still as clear as if it happened yesterday, I remember every feeling I felt with each step. OK, maybe I shouldn’t have said what I said, and I do have a healthy respect for those that have taught me along the way, but now I got the feeling that if I hadn’t pushed and pulled them in different directions a little, I wouldn't be who I am now. I’m glad of that, I stick by what I said and without regret. I made the best choice with all of the information that was to hand at the time, taking into account my obvious limited understanding of it all too

I’d do the same tomorrow.

Reviews

[Dave Lounsbury]

Very nice work. I enjoyed the first person perspective. Kept me interested from start to finish.