Scott Ferguson Writer

Koora

My small brown legs swung under the kitchen table. My football socks were rolled down, and the shiny polyester shorts had me sliding across the wooden chair, infrequently causing crackles of static. I glanced towards my older sister, who had a spoon in one hand, and the other hand keeping a book prised open. The spoon hung in mid-air, with porridge starting to crust into the steel as she lost herself in whichever world she had chosen that morning. I envied her contentment.

I picked up the banana toast for what felt like the hundredth time, and forced myself to take a bite; it felt like clay in my mouth. A strawberry yoghurt sat next to the plate, with the foil still on, and the spoon balanced across the top of it. Next to that was a small plum, and a glass of orange juice. I’d maybe manage a couple of bites out of the plum, but the yoghurt would be going back into the fridge, and added to my baba’s piece box later that evening. The spoon, although untouched, would be added to the soapy water in the sink.

‘Eat up Ibrahim,’ my mama said, as she folded tea-towels into a drawer. ‘You’ll need the energy for your match.’

My sister looked up, catching my eye, and smiling, before returning to her book.

I glanced up at the clock to see it was 9am; just one and a half hours until kick-off. I looked out of the kitchen window, and thought I saw rain. There wasn’t anything solid to see any rain bouncing off, just air, but I hoped it was raining. I hoped it was raining, and I hoped it was due to get heavier. I hoped for the heaviest rainfall of the year. A month’s worth in one hour; that would surely see the game cancelled? This was the west coast of Scotland, a dump of rainfall that could cancel an under 10s boys’ football game was always a possibility.

Yes, I couldn’t be playing out in that. I needed to be back in bed, under the safety of the covers, reading one of my magazines.

The phone rang, and my hope jumped. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the call declaring the on-coming monsoon. Flooded pitches, unplayable not only today, but for weeks afterwards, and as winter crawled nearer, possibly months.

Winter, meaning fireworks in the estate. Like crude piles of poison, popping one by one. Volatile, and senseless, their screams silenced yet shook the house that we lived in. Last year, my sister had slept under her bed for two weeks.

My mama answered the phone.

‘Yes…speaking…’

Someone unfamiliar, amazing! It could very well be the coach with the news. I watched on as her face neutralised, and she absorbed some quantity of information.

She hung up. A cold caller.

I sipped some orange juice and struggled to swallow my disappointment.

The calf of my left leg found the shin of my right leg, and I pressed it into the bruise. The pain was satisfying, and I held my legs together for a few sharp seconds, spiking and then dulling the sensation.

At my match last week, I’d been subbed on with fifteen minutes to play. There had been silence as I’d stepped onto the field, with the exception of my baba, who’d clapped a short burst of encouragement. The other parents had stood with their arms folded, not sure how to feel, not sure how to act. Some would have been indifferent, some would have been curious, some may have thought it was nice to be giving the boy a run out. He’ll probably not be back, though.

My first touch had been heavy, but the tackle on me had been heavier. It had been clean, there had been intent to win the ball, but there had been intent to win some of me, too.

I drove the tip of my tongue into the back of my teeth as I pressed down on the bruise one more time, just for luck.

Baba burst into the kitchen. He kissed my head, my sister’s head, and my mama’s cheek. He lay a plastic bag on the kitchen table. Within it, some satsuma peelings, and a greasy Tupperware with a licked clean fork rattling around inside. Mama threw him a plum from the fruit bowl; I really should give mine a go.

It had been another gruelling night for him. Mostly drunks. A group of obnoxious boys he’d picked up from the suburbs to take into town. They’d first asked to put one of their smaller friends in the boot, to save on another fare, and had tried to sneak beer into his car. They hadn’t asked him how his night was going, but had asked for his aux cable. When not shouting over one another, or vaping in his backseat, their attention was buried in their phones; a phosphorescent sickness casting their faces. They hadn’t tipped.

As was customary, on a Friday night especially, he would drive with at-least one soul who would ask how his night had been. Who would listen to his story, ask questions of the place he came from, of the job he used to do, of the job he should be doing. They always tipped.

Baba ushered me to collect my things; we had to leave soon.

As I grasped the edges of the toilet bowl, the orange juice came first, and then the banana toast. Clumps of it, the repeat flavour not as unpleasant as I’d expected, but I’d rather not be tasting it again.

I stood in-front of the mirror and exhaled. I gathered water in my cupped hands and splashed it against my face. Wiping away the sickness from my mouth, and any remnant crumbs of sleep from my wet and bloodshot eyes.

It had been the same the previous week, before my first game. I couldn’t tell baba, as he wouldn’t understand. Koora, or fitba, as the Scots called it, was my passion. I would spend hours pouring over sports magazines and newspapers, I would fight with my sister over the radio channel in the car, and sometimes, as a treat, I was allowed to stay up on a school night to watch Champions League highlights. I loved playing, too, but only with baba and my sister in the park.

Baba wouldn’t understand, and I couldn’t let him down. He had found me this team through a colleague at his work. He was coming straight off nightshift to watch me play, because he thought that’s what I wanted. He should be in bed, resting before his next shift.

In the car, I sat with my cheek resting against a balled fist. I stared out of the window, silently cursing the light rainfall.

Maybe, we’d get into a car crash? Not a big one, no injuries, but enough to make me unavailable for the game. Just a shock, and a quick call to the coach to say I wouldn’t make it.

No, actually, baba needed his car for work, that wouldn’t do.

Maybe, the changing rooms would be burnt down? Maybe, some bored teenagers had started a fire late last night?

No, there was a steel fence around the perimeter. I knew the changing rooms would be standing, and would soon be full of the echoes of studs clip-clopping off the concrete.

‘Have you tightened your studs?’ baba asked, acknowledging my thoughts, and the wretched patter of useless moisture outside.

I turned to look at him and nodded my head.

My bag sat in-between my feet. Inside it, a pair of meticulously cleaned football boots, my second most prized possession after my Arsenal top. The boots could one day secure the top spot, but I had only worn them once before.

Last week, when I had taken them out of my bag in the changing room, I had felt the quiet sniggering and judgement from the other boys. I’d kept my face down and tied my laces, hoping my reddening cheeks could be explained by the blood rushing to my bowed head. When I’d eventually sat up, the boys had moved on to something else, and it had granted me the opportunity to look around at the other boots in the room. A variety of colours, and all branded, but a lot of money to pay for them to be caked with mud from weeks before.

As the football pitches rolled into view, I recognised some parents of my teammates standing in the goals, clipping in the nets. The game was going ahead.

I nervously sipped from the bottle mama had made up for me; the flavour of the sweet orange diluting juice tainted by the fresh plastic.

Baba pulled in behind the coach’s car. The boot was open, and both he and his son were pulling out a black net of balls, and a pile of multi-coloured cones. Our closing doors caused them to look up.

The coach beamed at me.

‘Awrite Ibra son! We gettin’ another hat-trick oot ye today?’

He shook hands with baba, and I caught the eye of the coach’s son. He also beamed at me, and pushed a strip of material into my chest.

‘Man of the match from last week gets to be captain,’ he smiled, letting go of the armband.

My fingers clumsily grasped to catch it.

He put his arm around my shoulder, and we walked together towards the changing rooms.

I could feel baba’s joy barely contained as he politely nodded at the coach’s conversation.

I could feel the parents who had doubted me shrink slightly as they saw me again.

Finally, I could feel how I’d felt walking back into the changing rooms after the match last week.

In this country, I realised, Koora can make or break you as a boy.

How lucky they are.

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