12 Yards Out

by Javi Reddy

  Why was it so wrong for him to believe in something bigger than both himself and his father? For one day, could it not be Jay pulling on a Bafana Bafana jersey and kissing the badge after finding the net? Preega regained his composure and stood up to face his son. He said in a more even tone, “Don’t have false dreams son. I won’t be here when you grow up and they don’t work out.”

  Jay turned away.

  “Yeah, but are you even here now?”

  26 September 2013. 5:56 PM

  James and Jay sat in silence for a while, letting the serenity, that the tea had brought them, take over.

  “The old South Africa versus the new one,” James finally said. “Some things will never change.”

  “I’m not sure if it was even that. My father was never a racist or anything like that. He was just too damn proud. His narrow-mindedness killed me inside.”

  James gazed into his empty tea cup.

  “Your tongue went through the wars. And it was not the first time that it had happened, was it?”

  “Not at all. It happened too often for my liking.”

  “What happened, Jay?”

  It still wasn’t clicking. He stared at Jay as if he might be able to read his mind by doing so.

  “It’s almost 6. The guards will be changing soon. You’d better get going.”

  “In a minute. Come on, Jayendra. Get to the point. For the sake of my sanity. What happened to you? What were you suffering from—low blood pressure? Hyperventilation?”

  Jay rubbed his temple.

  “What condition do you think would affect someone playing football that much? Affect him so much that even a cold father would worry about him heading a ball?”

  James gazed at the boy’s temple. He’d been rubbing it ever since James first came here. James saw Caesar and Alexander looking at him, doing their best to make him feel inferior. Surely, even they had weaknesses. The penny finally dropped. He remembered that they also fell. James’ tone was assured: “Epilepsy.”

  * * *

  Diski – South African slang for the game of football↩

  Bru – South African slang for brother↩

  Kak – shit↩

  Skrik – to be scared↩

  Aweh – South African informal greeting↩

  Chapter 11

  26 September 2013. 6:13 PM

  Alexander the Great was one of the most renowned generals in history. Whether he had epilepsy or not, no one will ever really know. In his era, however, epilepsy was revered and referred to as ‘the sacred disease’. It was believed that those who had seizures may have been touched by the Gods. Perhaps, it made him greater.

  Julius Caesar was said to have had epilepsy although scholars seem to be quite divided on that theory. The great Roman leader is said to have had four documented ‘episodes’ of what could have been seizures. Some say he fell, convulsing, into the River Tiber, while others say his sickness was caused by a brain tumour. The truth can never be known with either great figure, but one thing was sure—these characters inspired Jay. James had overlooked the significance of them, hanging up there in his room, but the connection had finally been made.

  “You’d better get going, James. I can hear the gate outside.” “I have so many questions.”

  “I know. We’ll get through as many as we can. But not now.”

  Outside, James lit a cigarette on the street opposite Jay’s house. As he let the nicotine burn into his lungs, he felt the cold tip of a Beretta force itself into the back of his warm head.

  “And what do we have here?”

  He could smell the suit’s cheap cologne. The suit moved in front of James and held out a Stuyvesant Blue stub. “Right in front of the porch too. Idiot.”

  He tossed the stub aside and cocked his gun.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t decorate this sidewalk with your brain.”

  “I’ll give you four.”

  Nimbly, James threw himself towards the suit, and the knuckles of his right hand punctured the man’s cheekbone. The Beretta flew across the pavement. He forced his thumbs into the suit’s eyes, as hard as possible. James then kneed him in the groin. He dropped to the pavement, and James pulled his left arm behind his back before breaking it.

  The footsteps of the suit’s colleague could be heard down the driveway. James was scheduled to meet Layla at the Ice-cream Parlour tonight, so murder would have to wait for another time. He dropped the suit to the pavement and darted away before the second suit could remove his Beretta.

  At the Parlour, James glided in through the wooden doors, switching his head from side to side, praying that he was not followed. He sat at a booth with Layla.

  “Why are you panting like a mad man?”

  “Where’s my drink?”

  Layla got him a Milky Mojito. And another. And another after that. They seemed to be all the more refreshing tonight.

  “Why didn’t you tell that he was epileptic?”

  “Everyone knew.”

  “Even after he tried so desperately to hide it?”

  “Boys. Men. You can’t hide anything.”

  “Well, it kind of changes everything.”

  “Does it?”

  She sipped her Vanilla Vodka.

  “Well, maybe there’s a clue in there somewhere. And if everyone knew, then surely someone like Vinny knew. Which means that he could have easily used Jay’s condition to his advantage.”

  “Fair enough. But how exactly do you think he managed that?”

  “That’s what I need to find out. The more I hear about the stories in the build up to where we are now, the closer I can get.”

  “You’re so confident.”

  “I have to be. Someone has to be.”

  “Okay, let’s see if this helps. I recall the first time I went to see him play. Boy was that a show…”

  12 June 2013. Game-time

  Jay loved nothing more than wearing the number seven jersey for his school. Many a great player had worn it before and when Coach Zondi offered it to him, he’d never felt more honoured. Today, the number on the back of his shirt was the only thing that defenders saw, as he whizzed past them. They tried to disrupt his course to goal and, as usual, they failed.

  A mere seven minutes had elapsed and Rosebank were already 2-0 up; thanks to both his goals. Now, he’d received the ball on the left-hand side and had already beaten three defenders with his explosive speed. He suddenly slowed down and then accelerated again with great ease, leaving a fourth defender on his backside. As he cut inside, he unleashed a venomous strike which hurtled past the despairing keeper.

  3-0 after eight minutes. The fastest hat-trick in high school history. As his teammates flocked over him in celebration, another boyish grin, more of embarrassment rather than pride lit up his face. Layla remembered that grin so clearly—it was the same one she saw at the Fork Up event. That boyish grin made her want to come and watch him in a game. “So, what do you think?” Coach Zondi said to the scout next to him. The man had a grey hoodie on and sunglasses perched over his rheumy eyes, despite it being a dull day. He used a toothpick to fiddle with his crooked teeth. He nodded casually.

  “He’s probably the best this school has unearthed in a while. He’d be a good asset. He should put pen to paper as soon as he can and join us.”

  Zondi didn’t appreciate the tone.

  “Firstly, we didn’t unearth him. His talent is his own and no one else’s. Secondly, what makes you so confident that he’ll choose you?”

  “I have a way with these kids, these talents, if you like. I want the best for them, and I make them realise that.”

  Halftime had arrived, and with it, so too had Preega. He had come with the reluctance of trying to support his boy. He could not understand why Jay loved this game so much, but destroying a relationship with an only son was last on the list of any parent, let alone a single one. When he stepped onto the school fields, he felt immediate resentment. The man in the hoodie had his hand on Jay
’s shoulder.

  “My boy, we want you. Come play for us, and it will be the start of a life you have been dreaming of.” Seeing his son entertain a scout made Preega’s blood boil. University first, then football. How many times had he drilled it into his boy’s head? He waited for Jay to return to the field before confronting the hooded fiend.

  “You stay away from him!” Preega said belligerently.

  Coach Zondi was taken aback by the man’s unfriendly intervention. He’d only ever seen Preega conduct himself in a courteous manner. The scout, however, seemed to be revelling in it all. “Really? And why should I?”

  “He’s got too big a life ahead of him to be involved with people like you! Stay away or else…”

  “Or else what?”

  Preega, half the size of the man in front of him, lunged forward, but before he could throw a punch, he was restrained by two parents from either side. All Preega needed now was a straightjacket to complete his look.

  “Stay away, stay away!” he chanted frantically.

  On the field, standing with his hands on his hips, Jay was taking it all in. It was bad enough to witness this at home, but for his father to come to his sanctuary and behave in such a manner was inexcusable.

  The second half had begun and Jay tackled a feeble defender and drove towards the box. With his inner wrath beating hard on his mind, he shot towards the goal. He wasn’t even aiming at the goal because his eyes were closed. The power of the shot exceeded that of any he’d hit today. It was wild and capricious. Somehow, it was also accurate. It seemed as though it was heading wide before curling back in. The keeper didn’t even move, but the net did. His fourth goal of the day and his best by far.

  It seemed as though even when he didn’t mean to score, he did. No one on the field had any idea what had just happened, but he was still deemed a hero. This was the first time Layla had watched a school event since leaving high school. This was the first time she’d ever watched a live football game. If there were more people like Jay out there, she could get used to it. Thankfully, she had her camera handy to capture it all. Everyone left after the game, but she stayed behind.

  Jay sat in the field’s centre circle, his earphones snugly on. Layla didn’t want to disturb him, but she wasn’t sure when she’d get him alone again.

  “You were fantastic out there.”

  He removed his earphones and smiled tiredly at her.

  “Hey, you’re the photographer lady from the other day,” he said. “I’m just glad we won.”

  “Why so modest? You’re young! Milk it. When you get older, people will be all too willing to take everything away from you.”

  He shyly returned a look to her, very similar to the one he’d given her that day in Soweto. “Is your Dad always that intense?”

  He nodded and placed his eyes firmly on the ground. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  She sat next to him. There were long periods when they didn’t talk, which is what kept them sitting there.

  “One day, I’ll be good enough.”

  They had tea at the Vida Cafe in Rosebank before she took him home.

  She already began to miss him when he jumped out of her car and walked up his driveway. She would go to his next game. She would go to every game. He was holding back, even though he seemed so desperate to share. He needed someone to talk to. Anyone can talk given the right audience. Even a teenager.

  26 September 2013. 10:15 PM

  James sipped on yet another Milky Mojito and smiled at Layla. She left her hand on his until the early hours of the morning. He hid his other bruised hand under the table. He didn’t confess that he wanted to kill that suit. He was drunk when he puffed his chest out to straighten his slouched shoulders:

  “Our number seven will be back. He can bet his shirt on that.”

  Chapter 12

  19 September 2013. 3:27 PM

  Amritha found herself in darkness. Although Vinny had blindfolded her, she recognised the room they were in, due to its smell. It reeked of manure, which heightened the mustiness inside. She was not chained this time. The rare feeling of having her arms and legs free at the same time took a while to get used to. A dull light shone on her from above.

  She removed her blindfold and noticed that the table with Vinny’s torture toys was nowhere to be seen. The light suddenly switched off, before a brighter, single spotlight shone on her. She found herself centre stage. She heard his voice, but could not see his demonic face:

  “Dance for me,”

  “What?”

  “Dance for me, child.”

  She looked around and hesitated. “There’s no music.”

  “Dance.”

  She pressed her chin into her chest, fixing her eyes on the ground. “I can’t do it without music.”

  A shot was fired towards her feet, and she fluttered about like a terrified duck. She breathed heavily, then stood upright. She closed her eyes and brought her heels together, crouching slightly and held up her arms parallel to her chest. She began to move gingerly but sullenly. She felt a rhythm in her head guiding her through the blanket of silence. Her movements were soon effortless. Her mind had reached a state of total focus —somewhere she had not been for a long time. But her body was not with her yet.

  She fell to the floor and her nails dug into the dirty ground. She could not get up even if another bullet came her way. She lay on her back and looked up.

  Footsteps clanged against a set of metal stairs. The spotlight disappeared and normal light from the bulbs above flickered to life. Vinny wore a white suit with a red napkin in his top pocket. His shoes were cream and made of snake skin. An ivory pendant sat snugly around his sweaty neck.

  Her head was sitting dead on her forearm. He crouched down.

  “Where is it?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  He gripped her by the throat and hoisted her off the ground. Her tired feet dangled before him. He let her drop, face first, into the manure smell.

  “I…I need something to drink.”

  He opened a Fizz Pop and stared at it for a few seconds. He held it out to her. She’d not eaten for days. She leapt forward and snatched the lollypop from him.

  “Do you miss your boyfriend?”

  She stopped licking and threw the sucker at him. It grazed his eyebrow. “If I don’t get what I’m looking for, very soon, then perhaps your boyfriend will get what’s been coming to him for a long time now.”

  She threw herself towards him, punching and kicking with renewed strength. He snatched her at the back of her neck and chained her legs once more. She bawled and bawled and when she did not know what to do after that, she curled into a ball of anguish on the ground.

  She could no longer hear the music in her head. She tried to rekindle the melody, but nothing came to her. She was ready to give in—the end having crept up on her. Then, her heartbeat became stable as she closed her eyes once more and thought of the first time she met the boy that changed her life.

  16 June 2013. Two become one.

  Amritha had done this many times before, on many special occasions. Yet, today would be even more special. She was not sure what was being said about the youth anymore. There were murmurs they weren’t to be trusted. How could anyone put faith in a crop of lazy narcissists whose overconfidence outweighed their ability to think clearly and realistically? They were online delinquents. Bloggers who couldn’t string together the right sentences. Hackers who cared for no one but themselves. And app creators who wanted to strike it rich overnight.

  The youth, this youth, were hopeless dreamers. But today was a chance. A chance for them to extend their dreams to the real world. Of course, Jay was excited. It was a different type of pressure on him and the team which meant a different type of butterflies in the stomach. Sure, they would be a crowd here like on every other game-day, but this was an annual event, which contributed to its momentousness.

  The nerves took over Amritha. Opening act! Wanti
ng to put it right for the youth was supposed to spur her on. Yet, she found her body eerily unready. She couldn’t help but feel the crowd wouldn’t care less. To perform badly was an unfortunate fate. Yet, to evoke no response from one’s audience was a far more cruel outcome. Jay gazed around his tent at the casual nature with which his mates goofed around as they put on their kit. It was the sort of peacefulness of which they could do more with. Soon, they’d be back in battle; in a game that everyone would demand them to win. The serenity in the tent drifted slowly from being something welcoming to something unruly. The absence of the roar in the background before kick-off made Jay restless.

  The sari1 belonged to Amritha’s mother. Her old lady danced so freely, always at ease, never faltering. It took her mother years of practice to get to the level of brilliance she eventually achieved. That gave Amritha reason enough to push herself. Her mother often told her daughter that she was a greater dancer than her mum had ever been. Amritha knew that it was a lie, but she also knew that at least there would be one face in the crowd today that she could trust.

  Preega would be here. Today had political overtones attached to it, no matter which way it was viewed. Jay had already accepted the fact that his old man was not there to see him on stage with his friends or applaud his son. This was a big day in the South African calendar and how did it make his father look if he did not attend? Jay tightened his right takkie2. At least, Preega taught him how to tie his laces.

  As Amritha peered outside her tent, her eyes were fixed on a man standing behind the speaker’s podium. He did not wear a fancy suit or a silk tie. He was in a tracksuit. He nonchalantly placed his red peaked cap onto the podium. His dark-brown eyes held a soothing allure within them. It was peculiar that an old man would speak on such an occasion, but everyone soon learnt that he was up there for a reason: