Crossed Lines
I was playing soccer, it was a cup final, we were leading by one goal, the coach for the opposing team pushed all his players up field for a corner kick, the clock was ticking down.
In the obstreperous melee that followed, the ball careered in my direction and I kicked it unceremoniously downfield, just as an opposing player swung his leg. The ball drifted in the air and the guy’s shin collided with the sole of my soccer boot.
The game was paused and an ambulance took the injured player to the local infirmary. The match petered out and the jubilation of winning was muted by the on-field incident.
During the course of the following month our coach got news that the leg break was quite severe. Even though it was an accident, the event plagued my mind for months.
I was at home; it was a birthday party, somebody handed me the telephone. The voice on the other end was unfamiliar.
‘Hi, as you know I’ve had to give up due to the injury?’
My mind returned to the incident.
‘Yes, I can understand that’
‘I was wondering whether you would be interested in buying my boots? I’m not able to use them and they’re still in good condition.’
After a short pause I replied that I would. It was the least that I could do. I felt so contrite.
‘How much would you like for the boots?’
‘Oh, I was thinking around $50, if that’s okay with you?’
My mind was racing. How could he possibly get my number? Perhaps through the coach?
‘Yes, it will be a shame to give up horse riding.’
‘Sorry, horse riding?!’
‘Yes, isn’t this Martin?’
‘No, it’s Paul. I think that you have the wrong number!’
‘Oh, sorry about that’
The incident still haunts me today.
