by Robert Hoge
She didn’t want to tell me that I wouldn’t be able to keep up and had no chance of winning. She was worried that I’d sit on my backside and give up, that I’d stop trying.
Race day came and I got all dressed up and ready to run. Mom had bought me a new white sports T-shirt, green shorts, one sneaker and one long white sock. The shoe and sock would go on my right leg, which had an actual artificial foot. My left foot was still just a horse’s hoof of solid metal.
We sat on the dusty hill next to Iona’s main oval and watched as small, uncoordinated kids ran race after race. Mixed among them were a few athletes who stood out with their speed and grace.
Then it was my turn, and I lined up with the other kids. Mom and Dad stood on the sidelines.
“I still don’t like it,” Dad said.
“Well, Vince,” Mom said, “if you feel like walking over there and taking him out of the race, you can, but I’m not about to.”
It was too late anyway. I was on the starting line—skinny kids on either side of me with big eyes, bad haircuts, and white T-shirts of their own—and happy to give it a go. I bent down and leaned forward, pushing my arms out in front of me like I was going to somehow box my way into the race. I wasn’t thinking about running a record time or qualifying for the Olympics or being a spectacle. I just wanted to run. And win.
“On your marks,” the starter shouted. “Get ready—” Bang!
For at least four strides I kept up with the other kids.
I was taking what seemed like giant steps with my right leg. I had no working left knee—real or artificial—and most of the leg consisted of just two pieces of straight metal. As I ran I had to swing that leg in a semicircle away from my body. Normally I was fairly disciplined about keeping it close to my body to try to disguise my limp. It was still obvious that it wasn’t a real leg, but I did my best. All of that went out the window as soon as I started to run. I swung my left leg wildly to my side, almost knocking over a kid in the next lane.
About thirty feet into the race, I was already way behind the others, but I just kept powering on. I could still catch them. When I realized I was probably going to be last, I started swinging my arms faster—that’s what they did on television—and tried to pump my legs faster. That only made me swing my left leg wider and wilder. About a third of the way into the race I was going so fast—for me—that I started to trip.
I felt myself tumbling forward and tried to stop but it was no use. Down I went. I fell forward, which I was used to. The grass on the oval at Iona was soft and I wasn’t really hurt. I picked myself up and saw that the other kids were well over halfway done but not yet finished. Still time to catch them, I thought. I powered on, arms and legs swinging, puffing away. By the time I reached the halfway point, the other kids were crossing the finishing line.
Now I was racing myself, really. Racing on my own but not alone. Parents and teachers nearby started cheering me on, and I finished the race feeling like a winner. The timekeeper at the finish line later said he had to ask the other kids in the race who’d won because everyone was watching me instead.
Mom asked me if I minded not winning.
“No, of course not,” I said.
Later, Catherine ran her race and managed to come in last as well.
I turned to Mom and said, “Look, Catherine came in further last than I did.”
• • •
Falling over and finishing last in a running race and bashing my way out of buildings after space stations crashed on them were all well and good. But eventually I realized I could use my disability to make people laugh.
One afternoon, Mom came to pick me up from school early for an appointment. She came to our classroom, but my teacher, Sister Marie Patrice, was off talking to another teacher in a different room. Everyone in the class had their heads down, but someone saw Mom waiting at the door. The kids started shouting out, “Hello, Mrs. Hoge!” and I jumped up.
I’d got into the habit of loosening the long laces that held the leather socket tight to my left stump when I sat down. As I stood up, my artificial leg started to rattle loose. It was a shock at first, but then I started shaking my left stump wildly until my artificial leg fell off entirely. I was holding myself up with my hands on nearby desks and hopping on one leg.
“Hi, Mom!” I shouted.
David jumped up and started hopping around too, almost tripping on my leg, which was now on the floor. Others were about to join in when Mom saw Sister Marie Patrice walking back.
“Quick, hurry, Sister,” she called out.
Ratted out by my own mother!
I sat down and quickly grabbed my leg from the floor as the fearsome nun stood at the door next to my mother and gave us a strange look.
“Robert and David, come here, please,” she said.
I’d only half finished putting my leg on and hadn’t tightened up the laces, but I was so frightened, I started walking to the door.
David got to the teacher first and she gave him a whack on the bottom.
“In the future, behave,” she said.
“Yes, Sister,” David said, and went and sat back down at his desk.
Then it was my turn. She gave me a harmless whack on the bum, but for some reason I overbalanced and fell forward. My left leg, still not properly secured, fell off. It toppled in one direction and I toppled in the other.
Sister Marie Patrice just got redder and redder. She was probably the maddest I had ever seen her.
A hush came over the whole class. A few kids at the back stood up so they could see. They burst out laughing until they got one of Sister Marie Patrice’s looks.
“Put that leg on,” she said, “and get up.” Then she turned to Mom, looking horrified. “This has never happened in my classroom before,” she said.
Mom, who had done a very good job of keeping her composure the whole time, finally burst out laughing.
I was starting to realize that while kids laughing at you could be very hurtful, kids laughing at something you’d done was a different thing entirely.
• • •
That wasn’t the only time I caused grief for poor Sister Marie Patrice. Because our school was so close to the water, we’d regularly walk the block down to the shore for a quick excursion. Sometimes it was to look at the islands dappled across the horizon; other times to talk about the jetty and how boats might have used it in days gone by. I’m sure it was occasionally just an excuse to get us kids out of the classroom and have us run around on the grass.
Moreton Bay is bordered on the north by Redcliffe and on the south by Wellington Point, with Wynnum in the middle. It is protected by Moreton Island and North Stradbroke Island, which means calm waters and no surf. When the tide went out, it went almost three hundred feet—about three-quarters of the way along the jetty at Wynnum. It left behind a vast expanse of mud, seaweed, shells, and the occasional, very unlucky jellyfish.
One day, Sister Marie Patrice took the class down to the foreshore. The tide was out and soon enough a few of us had scattered and found our way onto the mudflats. The other kids took their shoes off before they squelched around in the mud, but I figured with my artificial legs, everything would be just fine.
Unfortunately I got a bit too adventurous. After stepping out from the shore, I saw some interesting rocks that I wanted to investigate. This was a wet, smelly mistake. I ventured farther from the shore, but my left leg sank deep into the mud, well beyond where my ankle would have been. Any normal kid would have used his or her knee to pull the leg up and out of the mud, but I had no left knee. Instead, I started working my leg back and forward, trying to create enough room to swing it out. That didn’t work. It just made the leg sink further.
As I tried to work my left leg free, I put all my weight on my right leg, until it started to sink as well. I flailed my arms about, consumed by images of quicksand from ol
d Tarzan movies and episodes of Gilligan’s Island. I looked for a vine I could grab on to, but there were none nearby.
I paused for a moment to think and noticed that I stopped sinking when I didn’t move. I figured I could just stand there for a while and see what happened, though the tide would come in eventually, I supposed. The other kids were doing their own thing, oblivious to me. I decided I’d give it one more go. A big effort. Surely that would work. I took a deep breath and pushed forward, trying as hard as I could to drag my left leg up and out of the mud. For a second it felt like it was working, but then I lurched too far. I was used to falling over—well practiced at it, in fact. I’d feel myself falling, shove my hands forward and lock my elbows and shoulders as tightly as I could, and fall. Better to end up with sore palms than to face-plant.
But it was not the right strategy this time.
I shoved my hands out in front of me, locked my elbows and shoulders, and slowly toppled over. I was expecting the usual jarring thud, but my hands didn’t stop when they hit the mud. Instead, they kept going, into the slimy mire—past my wrists, past my forearms, stopping just as the mud reached my elbows. I now had all four limbs stuck in the mud. I let out a slight squeal of panic.
Behind me, I heard a loud gasp. Sister Marie Patrice must have spotted me. There was no mistaking the sound of a nun who was equal parts concerned, annoyed, and frustrated that she’d have to wade into the mud herself to save one of her more stupid students.
Suddenly the mud didn’t seem so bad.
By then the other kids had seen me as well, and those who’d disobeyed the instruction not to go out too far started making their way back to safety.
Sister Marie Patrice lifted up the long skirt of her habit and for the first time in my life I saw her ankles. Quickly those lily-white ankles became covered in mud. As she got close, I thought I was going to cop a whack on the bum, but when she reached me Sister Marie Patrice just grabbed my arms and tried to pull me out. No luck.
Then she grabbed my left leg and, with what I assumed was Jesus-powered strength, slowly dragged it up out of the mud. Then she kind of lifted me up and over. My hands came out first, then my right leg with a vacuum plop as the mud rushed to fill the newly vacated space. It took us a while and I was really tired from all the exertion, but eventually we made our way back to solid ground.
I had mud on my shoe, on my sock, on my artificial legs, inside my artificial legs, on my gray shorts, on my shirt, under my fingernails and halfway up my arms.
“Now, Robert, don’t you go back out there, understand?”
I nodded. “Yes, Sister.”
I sat on the retaining wall and watched her walk away. She looked back at me a few times, but I just stared innocently out at St. Helena Island, thinking about the people who’d been so bad they had to be sent away from a penal colony to a special prison on an island all its own. Finally she was far enough away, paying attention to other kids.
I could have a bit of a look around, I thought. It would be okay if I didn’t go too far.
I ventured back out onto the mudflats. And got stuck. Again.
13
Games Not Played
One afternoon I returned from school extremely excited.
“Mom, Mom, I’ve got something to show you!” I yelled. “Can I, Mommy? Can I?”
“How about you tell me what it is you want?”
I rummaged in my schoolbag, pushing aside books and pencils and half-squished bananas I hadn’t gotten around to eating, and pulled out a sheet of paper. It was a permission slip for parents to sign, allowing their boys to play school sports.
“Can I? Can I? Can I play?”
“Stop!” Mom said. “I’m trying to read this properly.” She read it once, then turned it over, but there was nothing on the back. She read it again, taking it slow. Then a third time.
“Well, I’d like to have a think about it and talk to Dad,” she said. “Is that okay?”
Everyone else in the family was involved in sports in one way or another. Even Mom, who didn’t really play anything much, had started managing the tennis team Catherine played on.
The sport I wanted to play was called rugby league.
Rugby league is a lot like American football, but with no helmets and no pads. And fewer cheerleaders. Two teams of thirteen players line up against each other on a grassy, rectangular field. Each team tries to carry the ball downfield and score a try, like a touchdown. Teams had six tackles, or downs, to score before the opposing team took possession of the ball and tried to score.
It was a simple game, and where I lived, it was the most popular sport to play and to watch.
Even for young kids, though, it was a tough contact sport. You ran at a bunch of kids standing in front of you trying to block your way and either somehow managed to break through, or a bunch of them would fall on you when you didn’t. It was a mess of arms and legs going all over the place. One way or another, you’d come into violent contact with some other kid.
Mom and Dad were under instructions from my doctors to avoid knocks to my head. Surgeons didn’t want a forearm or a foot undoing all their good work. Neither did my parents.
Just as bad was the chance another player could cop a whack from one of my artificial legs. Both were much harder than a real leg and could cause some serious harm.
There was no way Mom and Dad could let me play.
Mom went to school to see Mr. French, who was in charge of organizing the teams for our school. She explained to him the reasons I couldn’t play and asked if there was some way I could be involved on the sidelines. They came up with a plan for me to be a ball boy on the side of the field, kicking the ball back in when it came out of bounds, and helping players set up the ball for place kicks.
“Do you mind if you only play on the sidelines, Robert?” Mom asked when she arrived home.
“I don’t mind what I do or where I am, as long as I’m playing and as long as I’m there.”
She and Dad both made a show of signing the permission slip, but I’m not really sure it ever made its way to school.
We won that first game. I even got to go on the field a few times. It felt good, but deep down I knew I wasn’t part of the team.
• • •
A year later, I came home from school one day and called to Mom from my bedroom while I was getting changed, asking her if I could play Saturday morning rugby league. No reply. I guessed she hadn’t heard me.
Later, I went to my schoolbag and retrieved the slip of paper with all the information on it. I put it on the table in front of her.
“Give me a straight answer, yes or no,” I said.
“Would you be very disappointed if I said no?” Mom asked.
I started to cry.
Once again, Mom explained that it was a tough contact sport. I was likely to be hurt if an elbow or a foot hit me in the face, and other players were likely to be hurt if a clump of metal from one of my legs hit their head.
I just kept crying.
We watched rugby league every Sunday night on television. Sometimes I even got to go with Dad and watch games at the stadium. The players were some of my biggest heroes.
“Maybe you could play tennis,” Mom suggested.
“I don’t want to play tennis!” I shouted at her.
Mom almost lost her temper then, but she took a long breath and closed her eyes for a moment before responding.
“I’ll talk to Dad about it when he gets home from work.”
I stormed off, sulking.
Next morning, I grabbed the sheet of paper and excitedly plonked it in front of Dad at the breakfast table.
“Can I play, Dad?”
“No, Robert. You can’t play,” he said.
I started crying again. “Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous,” Mom said. “If you play
a sport like that, you’ll just end up hurting yourself or someone else.”
I crossed my arms, like I’d seen people do on television when they were cranky but determined.
Dad tried to cheer me up. “These kids kick each other in the shins and they put their fingers up each other’s nose when no one is looking,” he said.
I didn’t laugh.
“Are you sure you don’t want to play tennis?” Mom asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, go have your bath and get ready for school, then,” she said.
“I’m not going to school,” I said.
Mom shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Dad glowered at me and pointed toward the bathroom, and I went.
When I came home from school, Mom again talked to me about tennis. I still wasn’t very keen, but after a while Mom sent me into her bedroom to retrieve a package, all wrapped up, that she’d left on the bed.
“It’s a tennis racket!” It was just like the one Catherine had.
I was excited to have my own tennis racket at first, but I didn’t really pursue the sport or make the most of the training Mom and Dad offered. I wanted to be part of a team, win, lose, or draw—but mostly win.
We’d go around in circles every few months. I’d argue that I should be allowed to play some sport and my parents would say no. Summer was cricket season but that would involve having a hard, heavy ball aimed at my body at significant speed. It was another no.
I loved swimming too, but it wasn’t the kind of team sport I wanted to play and I wasn’t fast enough to be competitive. Running was the same as swimming, with the added benefit that I fell over all the time. One by one, all the sports were eliminated.
• • •
In elementary school, the closest I got to any organized competition was Friday-afternoon sports. Most of the other kids would go off to play competitions against nearby schools, but there’d be a bunch of us left behind—the injured, the uncommitted, the uncoordinated, the ones who couldn’t catch. The crippled.
I would have happily spent my time in the library. Alas, this gaggle of uncoordinated misfits was rounded up each week and made to play some sort of sport against each other. We’d get into our sports gear and head down to one of the ovals not being used for a real sport. We’d be told what “sport” we were going to play for the afternoon. Often it was softball, but sometimes it was a made-up sport designed to at least keep us active for the last hour and a bit of the school week.
