These Dusty pitches called home!

He was of my age but much smaller than me. He was tanned, had brownish black hair that was always sticky with sweat and dust; he smelt of sweat too. I had known him for so long I couldn’t remember when the first time I saw him was.

He was very hardworking and he used to live with his mother and sister. His mother always left home early in the morning only to come back late at night. Sometimes she wouldn’t come home at all. I often asked him what his mother did that kept her so busy; we were 11 I guess. He told me she was out collecting debts, saying they were really rich and people owed them a lot of money.

It was not long after we reached 12 years of age that he told me he found out his mother was selling love to other men. He was sad but he was more angry than sad. In a fit of rage, he said he would never forget what his mom did and never forgive her. Ever since he and his sister started living with his uncle’s family.

Many times in late winter and early spring, I would find him with his sister in the small freshwater spring wells collecting water. Water is always scarce in my little town from January till April so people had to wait and collect water from the small springs. They would wait for the trickling water to fill up and then take a mug of water at a time to fill all the buckets. It was amazing how the small little spring filled all the buckets and how it never ran out of water.

On weekends we would go to the woods along with some other friends to collect firewood. This was our daily chore and it gave us the freedom to play football in the dusty streets when we came back. We all wanted to be professional footballers then. He hardly played with us as he was always doing household chores. But when he did play, he lit up the dusty streets like no one else could.

When I didn’t play I would visit him. We talked about a lot of things but he liked talking about his father most. He often told me how his father was once a famous soldier who died fighting in a battle. He would narrate in great zeal, how his father used to practice shooting arrows and throwing spears in their compound. I always thought that was the truth then. Later, I found out that his father was sick most of his life and died when my friend was still a toddler. I also came to know that his favorite movie was about William Tell; the famous archer. I realized he was trustworthy but not truthful. But I never did blame him. All he wanted was to have a father figure that was strong and brave; he never got to see his father and so he must have decided to build up his own idea of his father. And his father was his hero no matter what.

I moved away from home when I was 15 and returned after graduating from High School two years later. He was still this old chap I used to hang out with when we were kids. He hadn’t changed so much.

I had started growing a beard, I was already 5’10, and he was still this 5’4 ft kid. I had been playing football for the senior team for three years while he was still in the junior team. We talked like old times but I knew he hadn’t grown just like his body hadn’t. He said he got admission in a public school in town, the biggest public school that was rotting. He had 5 years more to finish High School while I was due to join College.

When I asked if he watched football he burst to life. He narrated everything he knew about the beautiful game and about the latest matches he had seen. Many of the people I know including me follow football the whole season and enjoy only when the team we support wins something. This wasn’t the case for him; he just enjoyed watching the beautiful game and all the beautiful moments it gave him. He said that he missed playing football. He was too busy doing household chores and running errands that he hardly had time to play.

I visited him once and went inside his room. The kitchen and the other rooms were so clean while his room stench of damp clothes. He took out a pair of football cleats from underneath his bed and proudly showed them to me. It was one of those boots that were worn by intermediate players; cheap and easy to wear out. From what I saw it was blue originally but he had sprayed it with silver paint. He told me it looked so plain just like that and wanted to get the look Nike Mercurial boot that was silver in color with the orange tick on it. He asked me if I could fix it for him so I said I’d try.

I took the cleats home and painted the orange tick on them with fabric. After I was done I took a photo and sent it to one of my friends saying I got new cleats. The reply I got had indications of jealousness so I thought it looked realistic. I gave it back to him and he was over the moon.

Two or three days after this incident, I went for practice. The players mostly consisted of professional footballers coming home for holidays and some local players. Not long had we started when I saw him practicing with kids at the side of the pitch. He was flaunting his brand new-looking cleats and danced with the football. They were preparing for the inter-school football tournament; a competition I played for five years ago. I just wondered as I watched him if he will ever know that there were greener pitches elsewhere.

But that was just me because he was in his element; he was happy. It was here that he always belonged and the dusty streets and dirt grounds would always be his greenest pitches.