Getting back into life wasn’t as easy
as it seemed. I went through the motions, I said what was expected,
but it was all empty. I used to play soccer, I got into it in Italy.
The most fun I ever had was when Italian kids –elementary school
kids- beat my whole group - all of us high school students - at
soccer. God I loved it, those little kids came up to us with a ball
and spoke in a language we didn’t understand.
It didn’t take long to figure out
they wanted to play. There were no cars about; it was on an island
that didn’t have them, like Venice but much smaller. There was a
McDonald’s, only one out of the country I ever went to. Don’t
remember what I got. That was out of sight around the corner. We
played in a square; fair bet it was the square of the town.
There was a big building, not sure what, and its wall was one of the
goals. No idea if there was another one or not.
There was a fountain with a stone bench
cut around it that we used to sit out when we needed a break. The
kids never needed one. God knows where they got the energy from. I
probably played the best soccer I ever had while we were losing so
very badly to those kids. Oh they were fun. The trip leader, my
Latin teacher, video taped some of it. It’s the thing I remember
most.
I never felt more alive than when I was
in Italy, and that game was the best of it. Usually you feel most
alive when you’re egging on death by climbing a mountain, or
skydiving, or doing something that will break your neck, or make you
go splat. Here I was living it up, and the only way I was pushing to
the edge was coming damn close to a heart attack. You ever get that
pain in your chest, y’know off on the left side? I got that, and I
couldn’t breathe well for most of it, but that didn’t matter.
After I died all I wanted to do was be
back there, losing a soccer game.
Things didn’t feel right. When I
touched something it was like my fingers were numb. The colors
looked washed out. The dark seemed lighter, and the light seemed
duller. Everything sounded hollow.
Soccer didn’t have the same meaning
anymore. It had never been the same, but now I was brutally reminded
of exactly how pale a shadow it really was. If I could just get back
there, if I could just recapture it … Somehow I knew, I just knew,
that that wouldn’t be hollow, that would be vibrant, that
would be living.
People noticed, as people do, and they
asked what was wrong. “What’s wrong?” they’d say, and I’d
reply
“Nothing,” then they’d say
something like
“Come on, you can tell me.” To
which I would reply
“Nothing.”
What was I s’posed to say? “Ever
since I died life hasn’t been the same,” or “Everything has
seemed meaningless since I rejoined the living.” Right. Or
maybe “I have of late, though I know not why, lost all my mirth.”
Hell no, I hate Shakespeare -talentless hack.
My parents, oh my parents. Since they
almost lost me they had been trying to get close. As if I wouldn’t
know that they were just trying to ease their own guilt. As if
sudden attention would erase the fact that they ignored me most of my
life. They knew I wasn’t feeling as well and they tried to soothe
me. They were about as soothing as splinter.
Regardless, I just said nothing and
people seemed to accept it. I became distant from my friends, if I
ever had any. My game suffered. I went through the motions, like I
did with everything, but in a sport you need that thing they always
talk about. No, not heart. Umph. If you got heart, and you have
hope, then you’ve got umph, but that’s not the only way to get
it.
I didn’t even come close to it,
eventually I quit and people were worried. They get that way, but it
didn’t call anymore. I needed the real thing, but for that I was
in the wrong hemisphere. It’s not like it was a big loss; no one
ever accused me of being a great player.
Well, clearly at least some of it's worth salvaging.
ReplyDeleteSomething about the writing style is causing my brain to insist the protagonist/narrator has a North Jersey accent. I'm not sure why North Jersey exactly.