He did not notice the little rules. Some he ignored but most never even bothered him. He was a big dickhead and a glorious buddy. In class he could not sit still.
His toes tapping in spasms and his steel ruler spinning like the blade of a helicopter. His sandwiches were always in his hands before the lunch bell rang and they were all gulped down by the time he got to the bottom of the stairs. Half way through the break he would order a chiko roll. There was never seemed to be enough food for his belly. It stuck out over his belt and his shirt and tie were not quite long enough.
School was such a drag. Stand to attention. Tilt your head forward as the Master checked that your hair was not touching your collar. Listen to ‘God Save the Queen’. March in straight lines into classroom. Try not to snigger in the cloisters. Practice the ‘pretty vacant’ stare. We all conspired in making it as boring as possible.
One afternoon I left my sport’s bag on the seat of the bus stop. Michael spotted it and screamed out. Neither I nor the driver noticed at first. He then came running after the bus. Shouting and laughing as he took up the middle of New Street. The traffic came to a halt.
Michael was the regular goalkeeper for the under 15 hockey team. The sports ground had two football ovals and two hockey fields abreast of each other. There were no trees or mounds to break the wind and the surface was almost as hard as asphalt.
That morning the sun was glancing down between the clouds with bitter-sharp teeth. Michael’s weight, size and fearlessness made him a formidable last line of defence. Few ever got around him. When he took a hit to the body he beamed with goofy pride.
The under 16 team was short one player and Michael stayed on for another match. It was deep in the second half, nil, nil, and as he dived onto the path of an oncoming ball the frustrated Xavier striker lashed out and kicked him in the ribs. Michael leapt to his feet and a melee rushed in to separate them. With a fractured rib Michael finished the match, and even stayed on as substitute for the first team.
Mr Simon, the laconic sports master, had a soft spot for rough diamonds. He did not really fit into the school. Most of the teachers adopted soft and well-rounded ABC wannabe BBC accents. They drove old BMWs that were carefully maintained. They buttoned up their suits. Mr Simon was an ex-football player who loved history and bred pigeons. For three hours he stood in the wind and, without saying a word, watched Michael.
On the Monday morning assembly Mr Simon told him to stand up.
‘What have I done now, sir!’
‘Shut up Filios. For once you are not in trouble.’
Mr Simon, who was usually taciturn and acerbic then proceed to give a sermon on courage and dedication. Michael blushed and shuffled with confusion and embarrassment. Praise and appreciation were not normal for him.
By the end of the day, he was back in Mr Simon’s office. Filos had slapped the kid behind him and snatched his pencil case. That envious little shit of a kid had slunk low, kept his head flat with the tilting desktop, and whispered: ‘wog’, ‘wog’, ‘wog’.
The teacher did not hear the slurs, but the sound of the slap made him turn in time to see the pencil case go flying out the window. They all marched over to the office and the teacher did all the talking. Michael had an unhelpfully silly smirk on his face.
Mr Simon’s eyes drooped. His belly also protruded over his belt and his chubby fingers were ruffling up his jet-black hair. He pulled out his long thin cane and reluctantly asked Michael to bend over.
‘No way, sir!’
‘Bend over Filios.’ Said Mr Simon with a crack in his voice.
‘Sir, if you are gonna belt me, do it in front of me, and look me in the eye.’
The air whistled as Mr. Simon whipped Michael three times across the thighs. Michael did not flinch. Mr Simon tried to tuck his shirt back under his belt, returned to his desk, put his glasses back on. He did not want to speak.
Michael was escorted back to class. He entered the room with a smile on his face. He was not bothered.
*Nikos Papastergiadis is a professor in the School of Culture and Communication at the University of Melbourne, regular contributor to Neos Kosmos, and author of many books, his latest is ‘John Berger and Me’ .
