“Don’t fuck this up,” he continues, reverting to form as his face darkens. “I haven’t given you eighteen years of my life for you to fuck this up now. You hear me, Son?”
I hear his words and understand them only too well. A blind man would be hard pushed to miss the way his body has started to vibrate, or that his hands are fisted at his sides. It’s been a while now since he’d used those fists on my face, my back, my ribs, hell, any part of my body I was fool enough to allow within range. But he won’t hit me today, or for the rest of the time I’m living under his roof. If it’s done nothing else, today has given me a certain level of immunity. Even if he could still take me on, he wouldn’t want to upset my chances of getting a sports scholarship to one of the major colleges.
His dream, not mine.
He’s groomed me to be a football star every day of my miserable life, his focus trained on nothing but me being picked up to play in a major league, his belief that he’d ride on my coattails, and any money earned would be used to take him out of the trailer park and set him up for life. It was why he’d bothered to keep me around after my mom had walked out.
He’d never bothered to ask me what I wanted, had never given me a choice. As the fruit of his loins, I was his. I belonged to him. I owed him, and one day, it was assumed, I’d gladly repay the debt. Like fuck.
I’d been undersized for my age until I turned fourteen, but that hadn’t stopped him pushing me on. Other kids might have liked that their parents, or parent in my case, came to every game, hell, often turned up at practice as well. But not me. If he thought I hadn’t tried, my reward would be a backhander when I got home, often adding to the punishment a scrawny kid like me had already received on the field. Had it spurred me on? Sure, but not for the reasons he believed.
Football practice, physical training, all gave me the opportunity for the fitness regime I needed to follow my own dreams.
I’d been sixteen when I matched his six-foot-two height, and in the last couple of years I had gained two inches more. Now a match for him, the unspoken threat in my eyes triggers his sense of self-preservation and prevents him throwing so many punches at me. But then, he no longer thinks he has a need. In his mind, he’s achieved what he’d set out to.
My plan has been thought out over years of lying in my small bed in the filthy trailer I’m ashamed to call home. Do I feel guilty that I’m lying to him, if only by omission, leading him on? Fuck no. A pro-football player life is not for me. But it dovetailed nicely with what I wanted for myself and had given me time to plan and to get all my ducks in a line.
So I continue to lead him on, pushing aside the thought I’d rather celebrate with my teammates who are still on a high after winning the game. “Coach has already spoken to me. The scout’s interested,” I confirm. That’s the truth, though personally I hold only fleeting pleasure in the achievement.
“This is a cause for celebration.” He slaps me between my shoulder blades again, a blow that would have sent me staggering just a few years back. Now, I don’t move, instead, I relish how he shakes out his hand.
His celebration not mine. Tonight he’ll go out, talking me up with his friends, boasting how he’s going to have a football player son. He’ll come home drunk, as he always does. Or rather, he’ll call me to bring him home. In the meantime, I’ll be expected to hang around waiting for him. I owe him, you see. Owe him for every minute of my miserable life.
A social life of my own? I never dared to have one. If I stayed out with friends, he’d come and drag me home. That the trailer wasn’t a complete hovel was all down to me and had nothing to do with him, but I never wanted to take anyone back there. He was a complete and utter disgusting slob, and I’d be on edge, waiting for him to lash out even at a visitor to our home.
He’s the only parent I’ve known. Oh, I had a mom, once. I turn away from him, pretending to watch my teammates gathering their stuff, amped by our overwhelming success tonight, but in my mind, I’ve gone back in time. I’m that six-year-old returning home from school.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Gone.”
My brow had furrowed. Gone? Gone where? The shops? To see a friend? His tone had rung warning bells causing a feeling of dread to grow inside. Gone forever? Unthinkable. She couldn’t leave me alone with him. She wouldn’t, would she? “Where’s she gone? When will she be back?”
The look on his face was one of pleasure. “She’s gone for good. Fuck her sorry ass. Now it’s just you and me, Son.” He eyes me for a moment, his brows turning down. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ cry. Men don’t cry.”
I wasn’t a man, I was a young boy. I couldn’t help the way my bottom lip quivered, nor the tear that rolled from my eye. Mom had tried to stop him hurting me, got in the way of his fists more than once, taking my punishment on herself. Even then at my tender years, I’d hated it.
I got a fist in my face then. “Men don’t fuckin’ cry,” he repeats. “I’ll make you a fuckin’ man if it’s the last thing I do.”
His blow, so strong, had laid me out on the floor. I lay, stunned, trying to process Mom had left. But surely, I’d see her again?
I never had. No calls, no visits. No birthday cards or presents at Christmas. The one person who’d made my life bearable had disappeared off the face of the earth. Did I hate her? I didn’t know. She’d abandoned me, yes, but was now hopefully out of range of his ire. Safe. It had been my childhood dream to find out where she disappeared to and to go join her. Until those fists met my flesh time after time. That was when all a son’s love had died for the woman who gave him life. How could she have left me with him? She should have taken me. She would have if she’d loved me.
He’d never divulged where she’d gone. As I grew older, I never bothered to search. She’d known what my future would be, yet she still chose to walk out.
“Drive me home, Son.”
Yes, this was my life. Nothing more than his taxi driver. He’d lost his licence when driving drunk, got it back for a time, then lost it again. A never-ending cycle.
I always knew I was a commodity to him. He had no love for me, never showed affection. I was a means to an end, his meal ticket for the future. It made me bitter, and in turn, I used him as well, only waiting until I turned eighteen, then I’d start to put my plan into action. Soon I’d be able to fulfil the vow to never see him again.
Suppressing a sigh at his demand, I should have known by now it would have been useless to make plans for tonight. They’d be fucked, just as they always are. I suppose I’d expected he might cut me some slack if I’d played well, and as it turns out, I couldn’t have done better. Expect my dad to show some decency or give me a reward? Stupid. It’s more likely that hell will freeze over.
I seethe, inwardly, but nevertheless agree. Right now I’m dependent on having a roof over my head as my plans come together. Am I using him? Yeah, but I have no regrets about it. He’s used me every day of my sorry fucking life.
“Just give me five minutes, and I’ll take you home.” Shielding my eyes from the setting sun, I see an arm raised in a wave.
“Now, Son.”
I breathe in and hold my breath, knowing I have to give in or suffer the consequences of going home with him in one of his more cantankerous moods. While nowadays it’s more me evading his fists, or catching a raised hand and preventing it connecting, there’s always the risk my rage would match his own. Being arrested for assault or murder would not help me attain my future.