Where the Stars Fall

38 | Meant-to-be stories

"HEY, YOU SHOULDN'T kick with your toe, mate!" I tell Josh as I approach the goal post in the back garden. He's getting ready to take a penalty kick. "It's always with the laces, remember that! Come on, let Grandpa rest for a little while, I'll play with you!"

My father nods in agreement and, with some effort, leaves the improvised football field and sits on the deck.

I position myself in the middle of the goal and look sideways, out of the corner of my eye. My father is watching us, smiling, and the sight of him, so weary and vulnerable, shakes me to my very core.

Suddenly a lot of words start to swirl in my head. Ball in and out of play. Offside. Score lines. Sidelines. Wall pass. Wing-back. Midfielder. Centre forward. Winger. All words I'd already learned by Josh's age.

On Saturdays, sometimes Sundays, I always sat with my father to watch every Arsenal match. And, sure, he also did a good job teaching a few tricks to me. We played together for quite a long time – at least until I began to beat him.

"Come on, mate, give Uncle Goalie your best shot!"

He doesn't say anything. His eyes are focused on the ball.

"So, how's it going to be? Want to strike with power or place it in the corner?"

He glances up at me and narrows his eyes.

"Good. Take a good look before you get the ball, check where I am."

He gets ready...

"Keep your head down, Josh. Focus."

And he kicks as best as he can and scores. With a little help from his friend here.

Four or five goals later, he's absolutely thrilled and begins to jump like crazy and run around the garden yelling, "Josh McReary just scored the winning goal and the whole stadium is chanting his name! What a striker!"

"Well done, mate!"

He high-fives me and asks out of nowhere, "So you finally got it, huh? How the rubbing thing works?"

"Mate, you're as red as a tomato!" And muddy and drenched with sweat. "Why don't you go inside, rest a little and let me chat a bit with Grandpa?"

"No! First, you tell me!" He takes my hand and pulls me to the swing set. "But at least did you do it right?" he asks, swinging slowly, his big inquisitive eyes fixing mine.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you ask for a baby boy as I told you?"

"Well, you see, it was a buy-one-get-one-free deal, so I don't know. They didn't let me choose."

His nose crinkles up in a frown and then he kind of pouts. "I bet they're sending you another pair of mini moos, you'll see."

I try hard not to laugh. This kid.

"You know, your sisters were sharing the same bag, that's why they look alike. But Olivia has two little bags in her tummy, one for each baby, so we may even get a girl and a boy!"

The possibility seems to settle him.

"You know Jane? The ginger-haired girl from my class? The one we used to meet in the swimming pool? They're saying she's pregnant."

I arch an amused eyebrow at him. "Oh really? But how on earth did that happen?"

Looking away, he shrugs. "How would I know? I just hope it's not mine. This family has enough babies already."

I swallow back a laugh. "You're right, mate. You should wait until you grow up."

He stops swinging and looks up at me, on his face a sad, almost compassionate look. "I'm really sorry for Olivia."