Frankly Told: Inherited Dreams

The gate slowly swung open just as the car pulled up to the house. Inside, the caretaker waved to the car, before he shut the gate and went back to sweeping the yard. Naturally slipping into the empty parking space in the yard, the handbrake was pulled, the engine shut off and there was silence in the car.

“Thanks for the ride,” he exhaled, with a tinge of spite as he grabbed his things and reached to open the car door.

He paused, handle in hand and retracted his hand from the locked door, slowly reassuming his position seeing the unchanging lock. His heartbeat was heavy in his chest with anger he couldn’t express for fear of its consequences. Keeping his eyes trained on the wall of the house in front of the car, he tried to maintain a composure he had long lost on the car ride home.

“I want you to tell me something,” his father started. “I want you to tell me exactly what that was on the field today? I know we’ve spoken about the space to express yourself and this is it. Talk.”

He shrugged his shoulders but did not speak a word. He could almost feel the holes drilled into the side of his head with the piercing stare his father gave him but he remained stubborn in his resolve. Contempt in his silence, he let the air between them grow thick with impatience. Outside, he could hear the sound of children playing and it filled him with longing.

“I believe I asked a question,” his father exhaled.

The tension was palpable. Every nerve in him was firing, the rage was slushing around in him like a cup threatening to overflow. His fingers clenched around the strap of his bag until it began to hurt. On the other side, his father was visibly getting to the point of exploding.

“When I ask a question, I expect an answer,” his father said in a deadpan tone. “What was that on the field today? I have never seen so disappointing a performance. You are supposed to be a captain and this is what you are doing? What kind of leader-?”

“It was just an off day,” he interrupted through his teeth.

“An off day?” his father’s voice slowly began to rise. “An off day doesn’t put you on the bench for the rest of the league. What kind of example is that you are setting? Forget the fact that I am paying for this practice. The very practice that you asked me for. Am I just paying for you to go and warm a bench?”

In his ears, his heartbeat deafened any other sounds and his father's voice muffled into background noise. His inner monologue was nothing but commanding his rage to still. He snuck a quick glance over at his father who, now animated, was going on and on about something that could not earn any less care from him. His focus shifted to his breathing and he pumped his lungs deeply with air to cool down everything swirling within him. Had the car become stuffy, or was it the late afternoon sun crashing through the windows?

“… You claimed you wanted to play like I did but I can tell you I never, never in all my days, did what you did out there today. When I was your age-” his father’s voice cut through his calming breaths.

“Please do not start with me and your younger days!” the words jumped out in a tone that gave away the anger he fought to restrain.

His father stopped what he was saying, turned to his son and took a deep breath, ready to launch back.

“You know, I am really tired of hearing about those younger days,” he caught the wave before his father. “I don’t care anymore. I am not the kid that still looks up to the stories you tell. I just don’t care and I don’t need to hear that right now.”

His hand unclenched and shot out, gesturing in time with every word that left his mouth.

“You don’t think I know how bad the game was today?” He went off. “You think I don’t understand what it means to have to sit on the bench for the rest of the league? Because I do. Before you were talking my ears off all the way home, I was already assessing everything I did wrong. I was going through everything Coach said and you know what? You are not my coach. I don’t need these pep talks like you are there on the field with me.”

“Why you treat me like I’m not aware of myself on the field is beyond me. And for what?” his voice quieted but maintained its harsh edge. “I appreciate- I appreciate the fact that you show up to my games and you’ve been active in them but I’m tired of being called nothing else but your son like I don’t have my own capabilities on the field. Like I don’t wear my own name on my back.”

His father’s mouth opened and shut again. The arm he had raised in his expression fell back to his side and he inhaled and sighed loudly. Like a weight fell off his shoulders, he felt light, enough to sit up straight and glance at his father before he looked back at the walls of the house, washed in golden rays.

“I don’t like it and it makes me hate playing because is my hard work even shining through? Is it what I can be known for? Are there even skills to call mine or is it just a name that earns me this?” he questioned as pulled at his jersey. “Am I here because I have a love for the game that is my own? Do you follow up on my games because you wish to see me play… or is this just a thing for you to relive your glory days? Am I just some inherited dream?”

He sighed. “Because if I am, I don’t want to play football anymore.”