Читать книгу Ploughman of the Moon - Robert William Service - Страница 18

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"So you're going to ditch your little slut of a Muse," said MacSporran.

"I'm giving up poetry, if that's what you mean."

"Congratulations. You know I hate the stuff. Aesthetic exhibitionism, I call it. It's indecent to expose one's emotions in print. But verse is all right. You did some things in Quiz that were quite good. Very amusing. Why don't you stick to that? Instead of writing about orchids, write about fried fish. Even I could enjoy a poem about fried fish."

"Thackeray wrote one about fish soup.... But I'm washed up with poetry; verse too. I won't write another rhyme as long as I live."

"I don't believe it. The dog returns to his vomit. But what new bee has the little boy got in his bonnet now?"

"I'm going in for sport."

"Splendid! Right up my alley. If I can't be an athlete myself maybe I can create one. Put yourself in my hands. Let me be your guide and mentor."

The great grief of MacSporran was that as a boy he had strained his heart tossing the caber and was obliged to give up games. But he was an authority on sport of all kinds and a most interesting chap. I admired him a lot, though I was conscious that he patronized me a little. However, most people did and I accepted it humbly. I looked up to MacSporran, especially as he was six foot something. His face, like mine, was ruddy, and when we walked together Silverman said we looked like a lobster and a shrimp.

MacSporran was in a law office and had the gift of the gab. He was such a clever chap I wondered why he bothered with such a Witless Willie as I. One day I asked him. He replied: "You're no90 end of a silly ass, but you have moments when you are what we Highlandmen call fey."

"I was born at the full of the moon."

"That may have something to do with it—moon-madness. To be interesting one must be five per cent daft. Maybe we all are. I would give you ten per cent; but though you are unbalanced at times I feel you are basically sane."

"I'm so glad you think I'm not crazy."

"Definitely not. Liable to mild mad-spells, but sound in the main. These sudden switches of yours from one field of enthusiasm to another are no doubt conditioned by the law of Cause and Effect. You will always be subject to brusque reactions. You may be a carnivorous addict one day and a vegetarian crank the next. And now it seems you want to leap from aestheticism to the athletic field. Well, that is interesting. Let me handle you. I want to feel like God."

So I let him mould me, and the men to whom I had talked poetry saw me no more. They were amazed at my sudden lack of interest, and turned their backs on me. I did not mind, for my new chums were stout lads who read nothing but the sporting papers, drank beer and affected an exaggerated manliness. I played up to them, buying a bull-dog pipe and tilting my bowler at a sporting angle. I must say I felt better living physically than mentally. My thoughts went outward instead of inward, dwelling on food and drink and keeping fit. MacSporran complimented me on the improvement in my looks.

"I maintain that the carnal life is best," he said. "Thinking is the curse of the human race. The more that one can decently approximate to the animal the happier one will be. But now let me see how I can exploit you in the world of sport. What can you do?"

"At school I used to play Rugger because it was more swank than Soccer. But I detest the scrum."

"Well, you're not dashing enough for a half-back nor foxy enough for a quarter. How about full-back?" I beamed. I had always admired full-backs, standing so calmly with their arms folded; then, at the91 critical moment, dashing in to save the situation. I saw myself a full-back, strong, silent, dependable. MacSporran went on: "We must approach the problem scientifically. What are the attributes of a full-back? Kicking and tackling. Now the best kicker I know is that stuffy little man who plays for the Queen's Park. He dashes between two dribblers and the ball soars like a poem to the sky."

"But that's Association. I'm a Rugby man."

"Classy kicking belongs to your game too. And though your right leg may lack the force for dream kicks. I have an idea. We will go to a cobbler I know, and have him make a special pair of boots for you. They will be heavily loaded with lead in the toes, and broad and bevelled so as to make an aggressive contact with the ball. Your toe will be an avenging bullet that will punish the leather sphere so that it will float aloft at your lightest touch."

I remember the first practice game I wore my secret boots. At the beginning the others did not notice. They thought my fine kicking accidental, then they began to remark on it. Easily I could outkick any one in the field. I was sure, strong, brilliant. I amazed myself and was exultant.

"As a kicker your stock is rising," said MacSporran. "Now let's see about tackling. We are told to tackle low. Take a running dive at your opponent's shins. Well, that takes nerve, and means a bit of bruising. Let's go to the country where you can practice being a human projectile." So we walked till we found a bit of greensward where I launched myself into space till I was black and blue. He was like a trainer, giving me no respite, so that I damned his interest in me. Then in September I took my holiday on a farm, where I practised in the hay, hanging up a sack of bran to the barn-beam. Time and again I catapulted myself forward, grabbing two imaginary legs. To minimize the shock on the hard ground I got a helmet and gloves; then, wearing three woollen sweaters, I awaited my chance.

"I only play full-back," I told the Captain. "Sort of specialized in that position."

He distrusted me; but, his regular back having failed him, he gave92 me a trial. I must have looked funny with my three sweaters, my helmet and my gloves. As I stood there I felt admiring eyes were on me, and I feared I might not justify my formidable equipment. To my surprise I played a perfect game. Three times did I go into action, grabbing my men by the ankles, so that they almost turned a somersault. By tipping up their feet I made them tumble hard. I wanted to intimidate them, so that they faltered in their headlong career. And as for my foot-work, time after time did I hear the cry: "Well kicked!"

MacSporran was pleased with his protégé. "I have created a full-back," he said. "And now I am going to be your press-agent." He sent an account of the match to the sporting editions of the papers, in which my name figured flamboyantly. My position was assured; I finished the season in a simmer of satisfaction.

But in my last game the devil got into me. "Why cannot a back score? Any one else can make a touch-down and get the glory of it, but the poor back is debarred." I was thinking thus when I saw the ball walloping toward me and I collared it. Then instead of kicking I began to run. I think the field was too astonished to do anything about it. They imagined I had gone mad. So as they gaped and hesitated I ran for all I was worth. I dodged a half-back, pushed over a quarter, ran round the full-back, and touched the ball down behind the posts. The crowd cheered and laughed, but my captain was furious. He accused me of showing off and threatened to suspend me. This ended my football career, for by the next season I was on another tack. By then, not only did I forswear the game, but for the rest of my life nothing could induce me to watch a match.

With the coming of spring, however, my athletic urge was still strong. Cricket was on the horizon and I saw myself a graceful, flannel-clad figure, part of the poetry of the game. To me batsmen were heroes, bowlers demigods. I dramatized myself in the part of a cricketer and confided to MacSporran my ambition. As a cricket fan he was pessimistic. "You will never make a batsman or a bowler. You are too anxious to do well to do well. However I might get you into the second eleven. Let me see ... you might specialize in93 some particular position. You are not smart enough for a wicket-keeper, and as an out-fielder you are too poor a thrower. How about mid-wicket? I might mould you into a mid-wicketer."

MacSporran had a scientific approach to games. He believed that if, instead of being an all-round player, one could concentrate on a special phase, success might be achieved. He was interested in me because he wanted to prove his theory. Besides, he took a vicarious pleasure in any triumph I might achieve. A fervent lover of sport in which he could not take part because of his conky heart, he found in me a chance to express his frustrated wistfulness. For hours he made me practise short catching. He would throw the ball at me viciously from unexpected positions till he failed to take me by surprise. We practised in a small room till I was fairly expert. Soon I could snap up almost any stinger he handed me. Then he sent me to a practice game, telling me: "Concentrate. Stand as close to the batsman as possible. Watch every ball as it comes in and act as though you expect it to be batted to you. What's better still, will the batsman to play into your hands."

Having asked to play "mid," I hovered close to the wicket. I bent forward, tense, eager, holding my hands in readiness for the ball that I was sure was going to nestle in them. But most of all I willed the batsman to put it there. Perhaps there was something in my suggestion, for he frequently did. And as sure as it came near me I snapped it up. In my first match I made three catches, one of them so close to the ground that I got a cheer from the crowd. After that my position was assured, and I rarely failed to bring off at least two catches in every match. I simply willed the batsmen to play into my hands and the weaker ones did. Oh, I did not become a cricketer. My batting average was two not-out, as I went in last man. But I did become a mid-wicketer; thus proving MacSporran's theory that specialization will win out where all-round ability will get a man nowhere.

Thus, thanks to MacSporran, I maintained my self-respect on the cricket ground. It was something to belong to the team, and I was particularly proud because I was not made for sport and I hated94 competitive games. But I got more joy from doing things for which I was not suited than from others which might bring me success with little effort. Even to-day I do not value a victory unless it is hardly won.

So for a year games were my dominating interest. During that time I read nothing but the sporting papers and with my chums would talk athletics by the hour. I followed the matches feverishly, knew the players by heart. My enthusiasm for all phases of sport was an obsession. The fate of nations might be in the balance; it weighed nothing with the victory of the Rangers over the Celts or the triumph of Lancashire over Yorkshire. And it did me good. It kept me much in the open air, made me objective and healthy in mind and body. Altogether, it was a rather radiant year....

Then suddenly I sickened of it all. I was saturated with sport to the point of nausea and I jettisoned my experience with never a qualm. It was as if I had been possessed by a fire that burned itself out by its own intensity. Of course I let MacSporran down badly, and for a time I avoided him. But soon after he consoled himself, for he switched from sport—to politics. He became a flowery orator and ended up in Parliament as a silent member for a Gaelic constituency.