The Credit Draper Episode 13

Avram remembered the games back in his home town. There was no ball then, just sticks for swords, poles for Cossack horses, the streets for their battlefield. The play was rough, rougher than the game he was part of now. He still had a small scar above his left eye to show where his friend Baruch had caught him once with a stick.

The gash had spouted then, but he had played on until the blood had stopped running to congeal in a proud crust down his cheek. He wondered if Baruch was in the army now using real swords.

“Hey, orphan,” Solly shouted. “Stop dreamin’ and get stuck in.”

He looked back at Solly’s frantic waving. Solly was in position guarding a goal scratched in chalk on a tenement wall. The rest of his team aimed for the space between two piles of satchels further along the road.

When the ball was with his team-mates, Avram ran with them in a swoop on the opposite goal, but feared shouting for the final pass.

Defensive

Then he was back on the defensive, doing no more than getting in an attacking player’s way, being pushed roughly aside. He was therefore surprised when a rebound placed the ball at his feet.

“Pass it over here, orphan.”

“Just get on and kick it.”

“Get it out to Billy, ye daft bampot.” “Pass it to me,” screamed someone from the other team.

The blood pounded in Avram’s head, blocking his ears until all had gone silent around him.

The initial heft of the rough leather on his instep felt comfortable, his foot responding naturally to the weight and shape of the ball.

His legs loosened, relaxed, adjusting their balance, preparing for their task. He felt he knew instinctively how to play this game – how to execute a dribble, weight a pass, curl a shot.

Some of the other boys had started to move in on him, but they seemed to move slowly, mouthing words he could not hear, giving him time to act.

He could see Solly behind them, arms signalling instructions from between his chalked goalposts.

With one swift movement, he dragged the ball back behind a clumsy tackle, rounded the prostrate body and continued forward.

“Pass it, pass it,” his team-mates screamed. He could hear their voices now, guessed their meaning but he drove on exhilarated.

He weaved between two players, lost his balance on the road’s uneven surface, stumbled, regained his footing, honed in on the piles of satchels.

His shirt had come loose to a clawing hand and flapped behind him.

An elbow aimed high tried to knock him off the ball but he managed to take one last desperate kick to squeeze the ball past the advancing keeper.

He fell forward on the momentum, rolling over on the pavement, cutting a scrape along his thigh.

A cluster of boys gathered around him. A breathless Solly pushed his way through.

“I thought ye said ye hadnae played before.”

Burst of sunlight

Avram rubbed his leg where the skin had come up red and raw. He looked up. Solly’s yellow jersey gleamed in a burst of sunlight that had appeared suddenly from behind clouds.

He noticed a bloody gash on Solly’s shin, a faint scar that seemed to tug at his upper lip.

“Thank you,” Avram said. “Thank you.” “Thank you?” Solly laughed, held out a hand. “Thanks for what?”

Avram shrugged, took the offered arm, let himself be hauled to his feet.

“Ye cut through these eejits like Patsy Gallacher,” Solly said, surveying his gang, grinning to the thought.

“That’s what we’ll call you. Patsy. Patsy Gallacher. The greatest dribbler Celtic’s ever had. Aye, Patsy.”

Avram repeated the word to himself, savouring its softness in his mouth. He didn’t know what it meant but it carried the sound of friendship.

From then on, it made no difference whether it was with a battered piece of leather, a bundle of tied-up rags and newspapers, a ha’penny rubber ball or with the much sought-after genuine article, Avram just loved to play football.

It made no difference either whether the playing surface was cobbled street, sandy gravel or muddied grass.

He discovered he had almost complete control of the object at his feet. With one movement, he could bring the ball under his direction, with another he could fly past an opponent, and with yet another he could direct the ball accurately on its way to its destination.

He practised hard until he could catch and control the ball on his forehead, the back of his neck, his thigh or on the top of his foot.

His record at keepie-uppie was close to one hundred, at least twice as many as anyone else in the neighbourhood.

“Once ye start school, Begg’ll want ye,” Solly said, tossing a stone after a cat from their perch on a mound of wasteland near their street.

Idle thought

“Who’s Begg?” Avram asked. He liked this, just the two of them, sitting together easy as dusk approached, sometimes silent, sometimes talking when an idle thought arose needing to be spoken.

“Ye’ll find out soon enough.”

“I want to know now.”

“He’s the gym teacher. A cruel one-eyed b ****** . They say he was a prizefighter once, lost his eye in a bare-knuckle contest. Ye can see him sometimes at the back of the assembly hall, walloping a punch-bag. He does the same with the tawse.”

“What’s that?”

“A thick leether strap. He’ll wallop ye with that too. Any excuse. I’ve seen him break fingers with it. I’ve even seen him burst open one boy’s veins with it. All the blood spurting out.”

Solly looked at him deadpan, miming with a sprinkle of his fingers a fountain of blood flowing out of his wrists.

Avram repeated the word, savouring its softness in his mouth. He didn’t know what it meant but it carried the sound of friendship

More tomorrow.

The Credit Draper is the first in a trilogy by J. David Simons. He has written five novels and is published by Saraband. His work can be purchased at saraband.net