School Stories – Santa playing football

Santa playing football

College. 1st year. Recess.

It must have been winter, for I remember the early mornings being covered in slants of frosted grass on the fields, and the girls wore duffle coats and scarves and the boys donned bomber jackets or regal overcoats – depending on their trends. The path to College glistened from the chilly night dew and the scene, as I recall it in my head, was cloudy and sodden where footsteps had created slush from the iced puddles.

I made my way to registration with anxiety. That day I was to play in a charity football match, and Bruce – a cheerful yet whimsically dense friend of mine – thought it would be a good idea to play in Santa costumes. I feared for my reputation, and at the time I was harbouring one or two crushes; my fancies for them delicate and wielding. I did not want them to see me prance about as a fat bearded man.

But for the sake of charity and my leaving it too late to back out, I dutifully went along with it all, determined to play the best damned game of football one could hope for. I met with Bruce in the hall, he handed me a Santa suit and gave me a specific time to meet up with the rest of the crew. I nodded a few times, cursed behind his back and walked over to the rest of my friends, their faces gloomy like the grey sky outside, their shivers as cold as the condensation on the windows. What a wonderful morning.

It soon occurred to me as I sat on a sofa waiting for the clock to hit nine in the morning, that Bruce hadn’t thought this charity lark through. I never remembered any of the concerned lot – myself included – going around collecting dimes and scrunched notes. Surely one raises money before hand, before the show is put on. I enquired with Shaun about this – a brilliant footballer by any right – and he didn’t seem to have the foggiest idea what I was talking about. Clearly for Shaun, it was all about kicking a ball and that someone else would worry over the details. And this is the problem, you see, having a bunch of daft ’male’ youths trying to organize something. Nothing gets done.

After a few boring lectures and a light recess I confronted Bruce with my worries. He was always a positive bastard though, sometimes frustratingly so, and dangling in front of my face he showed off his sandcastle bucket. Apparently Bruce was going to ask for money an hour before the match kick-off, a new concept of charity to my knowledge, and a terrible one at that. I simply walked off and took Shaun’s approach. I decided not to give a shit.

The dinner bell rang its clunky frame an hour later, its drone loud and wasteful, and why did it always stop and start at five second intervals? You see, college always made one pick out the little details for scrutiny between the rush of lessons and the stints of free periods. Once I watched intently at a girl wiping her snot onto the cushion of a chair, and so keen was I to see how many times she would pick her nose in supposed secrecy that I felt a rush of blood, as if I was a highly-strung spy on an important mission to count the number of times this girl rubbed bogey juice onto cloth.

Bruce – to his credit – managed to collect a few coins and some generous sod even gave up a note, and there was a band of confused students ready to watch the game. The lads and I grabbed our costumes and made haste for the restroom. Ten minutes later some unfortunate bastard walked in hoping for the solitude of a quiet piss, only to be met by a group of Santa Claus’ fastening each others belts. Glares were shared by all and an eerie silence hung in the air. The boy quickly took his leave and probably wondered what bank we were going to rob. Either that or Santa liked to solicit sex in men’s restrooms.

The pitch was frozen solid and it began to snow gently. Our opposition was made up of friends who had the clarity of mind not to prance about in pantomime attire. The match soon got underway and it only took a few minutes to realise that I was wearing the most pathetic set of rags in the history of clothing. My belt soon ripped and the cloth of the jacket tore with every keen lunge or dive. The trousers were too big and the string fastening them tight actually failed to have a purpose. There were Santa Claus’ everywhere holding up their trousers and trying to keep their beards from falling off, and it looked like we were all frothing at the mouth after having shit in our pants when we attempted to run.

The modest crowd were entertained however, and for the life of me I don’t know where the charity money went. Perhaps it was used to buy our dignity back. And of course it wasn’t. It probably went on beer and sorrow to try and block out our memories.