Read Spud - Learning to Fly Online
Authors: John van de Ruit
Spud - Learning to Fly (12 page)
Not only is it referendum day, but it’s also Boggo’s birthday! Pike, Spike, Meany Dlamini and Rambo held the birthday boy down and shaved his right leg. Boggo screamed hysterically and threatened to kill people, but was easily overpowered and sheared. The contrast between his furry left leg and his clean-shaven right leg caused mass hilarity in the showers soon after 5pm. Boggo says the joke is on us anyway, because the only time he takes off his long trousers, is to shower and shag.
Had a poor night’s sleep after a succession of weird nightmares involving Pike attempting to murder me. At one stage in the night Pike marched into the main quad with an angry looking Robert De Niro, who had a large violin case slung over his shoulder. Pike pointed directly at me. De Niro nodded, and then began striding towards the house door with that typically sadistic expression of his. Thankfully, De Niro didn’t get the chance to FUBAR me with his violin/concealed weapon, because I leapt out of the window to certain death instead. Thankfully, I had a soft landing in the main quad, only to discover that I was now half-naked at roll call with Pike reading out the names. After roll call Pike informed me that I wasn’t dressed properly and stabbed me in the stomach with his penknife. Everyone laughed and I couldn’t get them to stop.
I put these dreams down to concern about the referendum, general fear of Pike, and certain unresolved emotional issues.
18:30 Boggo’s spreading about the rumour that there’s a major school production this year and he’s going to nail a starring role. He nudged Fatty at dinner and said, ‘If Milton scored three chicks last time and he was shooting blanks, then I’m gonna nail the entire cast before the end of the first week of rehearsals!’ Boggo didn’t know what the play was, but reckoned he overheard Viking telling The Guv that it might be a Shakespeare.
Didn’t do a stitch of work during prep because my mind was racing with thoughts of Shakespeare and beautiful girls in school uniform.
SOUTH AFRICA VOTED YES!!!!!
Not only that, my father miraculously also voted yes, but made it very clear that it was a vote for Jonty Rhodes and not for the commies. Further good news was that Mom also voted for change, but only because Marge suggested it might be a good idea. Wombat didn’t vote because she went shopping by mistake instead.
I’d like to think that I did my bit. Onward to freedom!
IT’S DEFINITELY A SHAKESPEARE!!
And word is that Viking is directing!
After Mr Ashleigh-Meyer cancelled cricket practice because of his migraine, I snuck off to the bog stream with the collected works of WS. I chose a secluded spot under a thick weeping willow and surveyed the contents page. I figured that if I stared at the list of plays long enough without blinking, then Viking’s choice should naturally or supernaturally emerge. It didn’t, so I settled for a selection of Hamlet, Macbeth, Twelfth Night and The Merchant of Venice. I then spent the next hour performing Shakespeare in a loud stentorian voice from the cover of a weeping willow beside the bog stream. I must admit my Hamlet was particularly splendid, despite not really knowing the meaning of much of what I was saying. The good news was that I definitely sounded Shakespearian.
As per usual my cricket team received a bloody nose from Kings College. Even more embarrassing was the fact that we played against their sixth eleven. Mr Ashleigh-Meyer’s dodgy tactics didn’t help matters during the morning session. With our score on 49-4 at the first drinks break and me holding things together at one end with a steady 26 not out, our coach ordered us onto a full-blooded attack. He said I was boring the crowds senseless with my slow batting and that he would retire me unless I immediately belted fours and sixes. I didn’t mention the fact that the crowd consisted of the coach’s wife, her dog and the team scorer, and started slogging. I managed one more cracking four but was then bowled trying to hit a good ball for six. We were all out for 72 and the game was over by lunchtime.
Simon smashed a brilliant century for the first team. Unfortunately, the game was a draw because Kings College adopted typically defensive tactics and batted for time rather than runs. After his batting heroics a large crowd of admiring first and second years had gathered on Trafalgar to watch Simon hit golf balls into a tight circle with an eight iron.
The rest of us hacked around the athletics field and focused on attempting to get the golf ball airborne. Boggo was clearly jealous of all the attention that Simon was attracting with his eight iron. The idiot sidled up to where Simon was entertaining the crowd and began smashing golf balls in an obvious attempt to steal thunder. After a series of low slicing golf shots and loud laughter, Boggo returned to the hackers with a red face, spat angrily and called Simon an exhibitionist.
South Africa has been robbed of victory in the World Cup semi-final against England due to rain. Dad called it iniquitous and threatened to hurl his new M-Net decoder in the pool. Simon said it was the biggest rip-off in the history of cricket, and appeared to be on the verge of tears.
20:00 It’s official. I am the new President (of African Affairs …) !!! Surprisingly, Rambo seemed fairly happy with being treasurer after all. Despite the obvious lack of membership I still feel proud to be stepping into the big shoes of Luthuli, particularly in the week when South Africa took a giant leap away from apartheid.
This time Rambo walked with me through the chilled darkness and back to the dormitory. I was so elated with all the good vibes flowing around me at last, that I even asked him how it was going with his plan to get rid of Pike. Rambo didn’t seem to mind and said things were coming together nicely. I told him I was pleased. Then he stopped and stared at me, although I could only see the outline of his face in the dark.
‘What’s it with you and Pike anyway?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said in a surprisingly high voice.
‘Not some history I should know about?’ he questioned.
‘No,’ I replied.
Rambo didn’t talk again after that, so I prattled on about the World Cup all the way back to the house. Anything to avoid another menacing silence.
After a riotous English class, during which The Guv unsuccessfully attempted to talk Boggo into suicide, I was cornered by an agitated Garth Garlic. He bundled me into a vacant classroom and said he had to ask me a serious question and that he was too afraid to ask anyone else.
He looked around nervously before shouting, ‘Please keep this quiet, hey! The last thing I need is for Rambo or Boggo to know.’
‘Know what?’ demanded the voice of Boggo from the corridor outside.
Garlic jumped in surprise. His face reddened and he blurted, ‘Nothing,’ in a strangulated voice.
‘What do you mean nothing?’ enquired Boggo suspiciously, as his face appeared in the doorway. Boggo waited for a response and then in a sharp voice said, ‘Come on, Garlic, you finally coming out the closet or what?’
It became obvious that the very small section of brain that Garlic uses for speech had shut down completely. I jumped in and informed Boggo that Garlic was about to tell me about windsurfing on Lake Malawi. Boggo’s face recoiled into an expression of horror, and with a cry of ‘Holy shit!’ the school’s worst gossip was gone.
‘Spud, I just don’t get it,’ said Garlic once we were alone. ‘Okay, first there was originally the Crazy Eight, but then Lizard died and Mad Dog was expelled for building the tree house.’
‘Gecko,’ I corrected.
Garlic didn’t hear the correction and asked, ‘Why then if there was only six and now seven, are we still called the Crazy Eight?’
I opened my mouth to answer but Garlic continued rambling. ‘Then the Normal Seven has only six and the Fragile Five really does have five members, which doesn’t make sense either.’
I told Garlic that this was an example of irony, and that there being seven human members of the Crazy Eight was an absurdist joke. Clearly the fool had neither heard of irony or absurdism before, because a frown crinkled up his face and he left the classroom far more perturbed than before.
One has to question how Garlic ever made it into the top class for English. Perhaps the rumour of Nestle Malawi funding the new school rugby pavilion deal isn’t so far-fetched after all.
17:00 I called Dad to check how his final preparations for the golf day were coming along. My father was in high spirits and kept bursting into loud chanting song about us not being buggered about. Dad reckons he’s now playing brilliant golf and boasted that his putting down the passage is so deadly accurate, that he gets bored practising. He asked me what the prizes were, and declared that the Miltons would be presenting those snooty snobs with some serious middle class middle finger on Friday. He then noticed that Blacky was chewing away at the grip of his putter, and handed me over to Mom.
I worry about my father’s over-confidence. It’s hard to forget him questioning the course record last time he teed off and then scoring a shocking 141. I’m not convinced my father has the right temperament for golf.
Simon has pulled out of the father and son golf day. He said he has to attend a cricket academy tomorrow instead. He then lay on his bed for the entire afternoon with his Walkman blaring and his eyes shut tight as if in a trance.
Spent the afternoon hitting balls with Garlic and Vern, which did wonders for my confidence.
FATHER AND SON GOLF DAY
10:00 The day almost began in utter disaster. As the old bus roared into life I realised that I’d left my putter behind in my locker. After some nasty jeering from eighty seniors on the bus I scampered back to the dormitory to find my putter, and discovered Simon lying on his bed in the foetal position. Thankfully, his face was turned away and his Walkman was still blaring so I didn’t have to deal with any emotional issues. One thing is for certain: he didn’t look like somebody about to leave for a cricket academy …
Back on the bus, I mentioned to Fatty what I had just witnessed in the dormitory. Suddenly the pimple-ridden face of Boggo appeared above the seat in front of us.
‘He’s not going to a cricket academy, you dork!’ exclaimed Boggo like it was yesterday’s news. ‘His dad bailed on him last night.’ Boggo’s large teeth tore away at a piece of string attached to his golf glove. ‘Been called to Geneva at the last minute for some business meeting or something. He’s feeling humiliated.’ He finally yanked the string out and spat it onto the floor of the aisle. ‘The guy is completely cut up – he’s been practising every day for months.’
Rambo considered this news without demonstrating any emotion whatsoever. Eventually he said, ‘So Simon’s got daddy love issues …’ He then nodded to himself and said, ‘Interesting,’ before lapsing into a silence with bright capsules of light burning in his eyes.
Victoria Country Club lies on the slopes of Town Hill surrounded by forest and the great Umgeni River Valley. I must admit that I was a little freaked out when I realised that the entrance to the golf club is uncomfortably close to where our station wagon twice broke down last year. I hope Dad keeps all thoughts of nappies and straightjackets at bay during his round.
My father arrived in striped pants and a checked golf shirt. He did an embarrassing war dance in the parking lot in full view of the club golf captain and the caddy master. He then said he needed the loo and disappeared into the bar.
11:40 Ten minutes until our tee-off time. Still no sign of Dad and The Guv.
11:42 Help Vern search for his ball after putting it off the practice green into a nearby flowerbed.
11:43 Receive verbal abuse from the irate golf captain, who threatens to report us for violating club rules and vandalising his flowerbed.
11:44 Vern becomes distraught because he can see his ball but cannot reach it without stepping into the now out of bounds flowerbed.
11:46 Vern and I concede defeat and carry our bags towards the first tee while the golf captain strides into the flowerbed and pockets a brand new Titleist golf ball.
11:48 Rambo’s dad smashes the ball off the first tee and father and son stride down the fairway in earnest conversation.
11:52 The bar door swings open and my father and my English teacher stumble out into the sunlight.
Showtime!
The Guv looked ridiculous. White shoes, long white socks, white plus fours, electric blue golf shirt and white flat cap. He shouted, ‘Stevens!’ and his gardener appeared with his golf bag. Stevens was clad in old white cricket clothes that may well have belonged to WG Grace. I’m not sure if Stevens has ever played golf before because he didn’t seem to know what was cracking, although he and my English teacher certainly looked hilarious striding along together.
The announcer at the first tee boomed into an old microphone that was completely inaudible beyond a few paces from where he was standing. I barely made out the announcement: ‘11:54 on the first tee, Black, Adder, Edly, Milton and Milton.’ There was then a worried conversation between the announcer and the golf captain who had just pulled up officiously in his golf buggy. After a long consultation, the stern looking announcer stepped forward and said there was some confusion, as we appeared to have five names down instead of four. He then referred back to his sheet of paper and asked, ‘Which one of you is Black?’ The Guv looked outraged and shouted, ‘Why, surely, man, it’s obvious?’ The announcer’s worried eyes then settled on Stevens dressed in his 19th-century cricket kit. His cheeks reddened while Stevens grinned broadly and handed The Guv his driver.
And at that very moment Vern teed off. It was unfortunate that the golf captain was watching because Vern’s wood drove viciously into the ground, digging up a fair portion of the tee box. It looked like a small landmine had exploded beneath his feet and the wild swing only advanced the ball by three paces. There were loud sniggers from Boggo and Fatty who had formed part of a lively crowd around the tee. Vern was startled by the ugly hole he’d made and furiously thumped his foot up and down like he was putting out a fire. He then looked around shiftily to see if anyone had noticed his cretin attack, before skulking up to his ball and quickly picking it up and placing it in his pocket. He then strode back to his golf bag where he loudly counted all his clubs. Clearly, the golf captain and the announcer were flummoxed by Rain Man, having never encountered his bizarre antics before. They were also rather taken aback by the enormous boy who had fallen down the bank convulsing with laughter.
Dad unsheathed his driver with a flourish and strode up to the tee like he meant business. I think I was more nervous for my father than I was for me. I so desperately wanted him to hit a great shot in front of the sniggering Boggo and the other posh dads who had gathered to mock us. My father was nervous and his practice swing looked wild and jerky. I could see his body shivering with nerves and perhaps a few too many beers before the start of play. There was a long pause as he stood motionless above his ball and he seemed to be talking to himself under his breath. Then he smashed it miles down the middle of the fairway. Polite applause rippled around the tee and Dad touched his cap with his left hand like a professional. I was bursting with pride when I teed off. Unfortunately, I lifted my head and the ball squirted along the ground coming to rest just on the fairway. Nobody laughed. Mission successful.
11:54 The Guv smashed the ball into the forest after making a dramatic swing with his driver. As the ball disappeared into the trees he shouted, ‘To Zion and beyond, fair adulteress!’ The gathered crowd laughed and at last, after all the waiting and practising and fretting, the worst was over.
Once Vern, The Guv and Stevens had disappeared into the trees to look for the ball, Dad pulled me aside and warned me not to be distracted by The Guv’s shouting and Vern’s bizarre behaviour. ‘Now watch this shot,’ said Dad before topping the ball into a bunker.
Suddenly a ball landed on the green and rolled up next to the hole. The Guv came striding out of the trees and shouted, ‘I don’t accept cheques, Milton – I will have my pound of flesh!’ Dad didn’t look amused and slammed his next shot into the wall of the bunker and swore loudly.
My putter is definitely haunted. I missed a putt that was only two feet long. If you aim at the hole, the ball veers off to the left. If you aim slightly right to allow for the leftward veer, it runs dead straight.
My putting didn’t improve but we still defeated The Guv and Vern, who became increasingly more bizarre as the day progressed. Even Dad agrees that he isn’t at all normal and should be at a special school.
18:00 Showered and changed back into our school uniforms, the sons joined the dads in the lounge for prize giving. The room was warm and buzzing and laughing men with beers were everywhere while Fatty and Boggo sped around selling charity raffle tickets. When Boggo arrived at our table he said he was raffling off the putter Gary Player used to win the 1969 South African Open and that all proceeds were going to a children’s charity. Dad bought the story (and six raffle tickets) and told me it would be a great irony if we won Player’s putter in this desperate hour of need.
Rambo and his dad were second overall and won a huge hamper of prizes. Dad and I came thirty-fifth out of eighty teams, which wasn’t too bad. We won a set of whiskey tumblers and a wood cover that looks like Odie.
It was also interesting to watch Rambo with his dad. He seemed like a completely different person once again. He hung on his father’s every word and laughed at all his rude jokes. His eyes never left his dad’s face and his mouth was fixed in a glowing smile for the entire evening. (Talk about daddy love issues – )
Dad won the lucky draw! Boggo handed over Gary Player’s famous putter and the two had a photograph together for a local newspaper. Dad returned from the stage proudly clutching his putter and looking incredibly chuffed. He sat down and drained his beer. He then declared, ‘There must be a God!’ My father handed me the putter like he was presenting a royal gift and said, ‘There you go, boy – your prayers have been answered.’
It didn’t look like the kind of putter Gary Player would use for firewood let alone to win the SA Open. Also the way in which ‘Gary’ had been scribbled in Tippex on the back of the blade was more than a little suspicious. And then the realisation hit me – I had seen this putter before in numerous dormitory putting contests, and it didn’t belong to Gary Player. Boggo gave me a wink and grinned at me from across the lounge. Come to think of it, I’d never heard of the Scottstein Children’s Charity before either.
On the bus ride back to school I thought about the holidays. It seems so long since I last slept in my own bed. I even miss Blacky! One more week and then that old familiar scent of freedom … Just six weeks in and and I’m already counting down.