You Make Me Feel

14. you make me feel

FELIX

On a typical Saturday morning, the autumn sun shines mildly, Annie is watching TV dramas per usual, mom and dad go out for a morning stroll, and everything seems peaceful, a good time to break the rules – again.

I'm sure dad won't mind it if he doesn't see me around for the next couple of hours, but in case he wants to check on his grounded son, there's a bunch of pillows under my blanket.

So I manage to sneak out of the house with my yellow jersey, shin guards and boots in my bag, tiptoeing down the stairs like a thrifty burglar. After a successful escape, I dash across several blocks to the open arena downstreet. The field sites near the central park, a ten minutes' walk from home.

I reach the field when the match is already few minutes into halftime. I would've arrived much earlier if dad hadn't held my phone, but there's always a silver lining – I can save my energy for the second half.

While awaiting the halftime, I sit on the bench, cheering my team on as they shoot the football towards our opponent's goalpost. Every one of them look like they need a boost, it's clear from how jaded they are.

Soon after, the first half ends with a draw.

"Felix!" Some of my friends wave me over.

"I thought you were not going to make it," one of them says.

"And miss this chance? I've been aching to play with those guys since," I turn aside, keeping an eye on our opponents assembled together in a cluster, trying to revive their strength. "There's no way I'd pass this up."

"What happened today though? You're usually never late for a game," another mate asks.

I smile roughly, "you know me, always trying to make a grand entrance."

"Alright! We're going with a new formation for the second half. Our striker has finally arrived!"

*

After a well-played match, which my team wins – as rightfully earned, my teammates go out to celebrate our victory while I hurry home. I can't possibly join them. Other than the fact that I'm still grounded, I've been feeling quite weird for a while.

In the match, something kept begging me to go home on time.

Getting close to the house by evening in casual clothing, my football kit in my bag, I notice dad waiting impatiently on the driveway, and not in a worried or concerned manner.

From the looks of it, he's not going easy on me. The way he gaits around guarding the door just means that I'm in deep trouble. I have no other choice but to answer some queries first before I even think of entering the house.

I walk close enough to the front, but he bridges the gap with quick long strides. "Tell me, where have you been all day?" He yells.

"I went with our neighbours," I respond calmly. "We had an important match, and I had to go." I hope this cross-examination doesn't escalate into something we'll both regret. I can't be this calm for nothing.

"With whose permission?"

No freaking way! So this sick feeling all along is because I didn't ask for permission to leave the house?! This is ridiculous! But knowing dad, he is going to create a mountain out of it anyways. "Do I really have to do that?"

He puckers his brow. "What!!!"

I remain rather impassive, folding my arms and looking away.

This is me trying to put his patience to the test. As expected, he takes it personal and reacts as the uncivilized timeworn man that he is. It was just a game, nothing worth all this trouble. This isn't the first time I've gone out to play football, well, except other times, we don't usually fight the way we've fought over the past few weeks, and I wasn't on house arrest. Maybe it's a build up to this abrasive display, but still uncalled for.