Author: Steven Herrick
Genre: Humour
My name is Darcy Franz Pele Walker.
Ignore the middle names.
I do.
My Dad is a football nut and he figured if he named me after his two favourite players, I’d turn out just like them. At the age of five, I’d stand in the backyard wearing baggy blue shorts and a Brazilian jersey watching the clouds, the trees, birds tilting overhead on the breeze.
Dad would shout, ‘Ready, Darcy? and roll the ball temptingly my way.
‘Just kick it with all you’ve got, Son.’
I’d look at the coloured panels on the ball.
‘Just swing your foot, Darcy.’
Arms extended, I’d obediently sway my right leg like a ballerina stretching.
The football experiment stopped at age eleven. Years of frustration got the better of Dad and he belted one, straight at me. Bloodcurdling screams rent the suburb.
Not from me, from Mum.
I lay on my back, a warm ooze of blood trickled down my face.
People say I look better with a broken nose.
It’s a slight lump.
You can hardly notice it.
Dad was distraught. Mum shouted at him for hours, bad language bouncing off the kitchen walls.
Dad said I’d never have to play football again.
I almost hugged him, but I didn’t want to get blood all over his clean shirt.
Pele is some Brazilian dude, the greatest player of all time. When he retired he became the Minister for Sport in the Brazilian government. Franz is Franz Beckenbauer - the only person to win the world cup as player and a coach. In his heyday, he had a haircut like a laughing clown, curls framing an amiable round chubby face.
Darcy can cope with parents, parties and punch-ups. He can handle his crush on the beautiful Audrey, spending quality chess-time with his nerdy mate, Noah and even the dramas of kayaking on a school excursion. After all, he is a teenage boy - he can handle it.My name is Darcy Franz Pele Walker.
Ignore the middle names.
I do.
My Dad is a football nut and he figured if he named me after his two favourite players, I’d turn out just like them. At the age of five, I’d stand in the backyard wearing baggy blue shorts and a Brazilian jersey watching the clouds, the trees, birds tilting overhead on the breeze.
Dad would shout, ‘Ready, Darcy? and roll the ball temptingly my way.
‘Just kick it with all you’ve got, Son.’
I’d look at the coloured panels on the ball.
‘Just swing your foot, Darcy.’
Arms extended, I’d obediently sway my right leg like a ballerina stretching.
The football experiment stopped at age eleven. Years of frustration got the better of Dad and he belted one, straight at me. Bloodcurdling screams rent the suburb.
Not from me, from Mum.
I lay on my back, a warm ooze of blood trickled down my face.
People say I look better with a broken nose.
It’s a slight lump.
You can hardly notice it.
Dad was distraught. Mum shouted at him for hours, bad language bouncing off the kitchen walls.
Dad said I’d never have to play football again.
I almost hugged him, but I didn’t want to get blood all over his clean shirt.
Pele is some Brazilian dude, the greatest player of all time. When he retired he became the Minister for Sport in the Brazilian government. Franz is Franz Beckenbauer - the only person to win the world cup as player and a coach. In his heyday, he had a haircut like a laughing clown, curls framing an amiable round chubby face.
Now, if only he could learn to keep his mouth SHUT!
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