berk

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
the more arrogant they come the more painfully they fall

Submitted: March 04, 2008

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Submitted: March 04, 2008

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His name was Jonathan Porter, he was in the 3rd year at junior school, a full year older than me and in addition to being the Captain of the Football team he was tall, handsome and a born show-off. He was perpetually performing feats of football daring-do, cracking woefully unfunny jokes at the expense of others and generally strutting about the place like the prize cock he was, all for the delight of adoring strings of giggling schoolgirls and legions of bone headed companions.

His mother was the school secretary, an awful but attractive woman who undertook duties of discipline that were out of her job role, and his sister, who was in my class, was a vicious chip off the old block.

I despised Jonathan’s attitude and resented his unfounded popularity, whilst his mother could scold me for flicking peas and not adhering to strict uniform policy I knew her power over me was redundant and she was cockily rebuked. Conversely, Jonathan knew that his position of power was exalted precisely because his mother was school secretary. What I gained on the swings, I lost on the roundabouts.

The subsequent glaring at each other in crowded corridors and over lunchtime tables never amounted to physical confrontation though our silent chagrin was fully loaded. Soon, I thought, nature will take its course and I could only hope that I would be there to witness his downfall.

Retribution came one lunchtime on the tarmac of the five-aside pitch. There he was belting about in full hero mode, acting as forward, defence and midfield in one contemptible package as I strolled past on my way to a meeting with some friends to swap Top Trump cards away from the prying eyes of those that sought us harm. So arrogant was he that he performed his soccer showboating with a Posh Lolly nonchalantly sticking out of his contemptible mouth, the contemporary equivalent of a cigarette. Even I was somewhat taken aback by this act of sheer audacity, to the degree that I stopped for second to glare scornfully. It was then I caught his eye.

He looked back at me just as he was running full pelt from one side of the pitch to the other, his mouth slightly parted as he grabbed some air between sucking his confection, the stiff cardboard stick hopping between his lips. My hard stare locked onto his bemused visage just as the goalkeeper ran out to confront another potential victory. As if in slow motion, Jonathan’s gaze was ripped form mine to witness his own face approaching the tarmac at ludicrous speed, following a sickening crack, which rendered the whole of the school silent, Jonathan slowly shifted from the horizontal to the vertical whilst the goalkeeper and the team looked on agog.

The silence was punctuated by one, then two, then three piercing shrills from some of his adoring fans, then followed by a deeper more mournful wail, the latter from Jonathan who must have found it awkward to scream on account of the lolly stick now poking out an inch below his bottom lip. I stood rigid and watched Jonathan sink back to his spots of blood on the tarmac as two male teachers and his awful mother ran to scoop him up, the last thing he saw before he was evacuated into the school, strung out like chewing gum, was me, staring right at him, with a wide, obscene grin on my face.

Even now when I recall the episode I can’t help feeling somewhat cheery.


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