James Mandarin

Sport

I hate sport.

I hate the ball, the artificial grass, teachers with whistles around their necks and students who think sport lessons are the Olympics.

"James, you need to participate." My teacher, Mr Williamson says sternly, before mentioning something about my D-grade in sport. I almost roll my eyes and walk away. Who cares about sport anyway? Who cares about spending eighty minutes chasing after a ball and trying to place it inside a net?

I'm not a dog.

I watch as people quickly practice for the game of basketball. I look at Martin, the best basketball player in the school. I watch the way his hand moves smoothly over the ball, as if touching his lover. He bites his lips as he concentrates on dribbling the ball.

He would have made a good dog.

I sit on the boundaries of the court, watching the sky. I wish I could paint. I need new supplies but I have to ask my father for money. Whenever I ask my mother for things, she always refers me to my father. "He's the one who makes the money," she says, "ask him for it." That's is a lie. Dad doesn't work. He's a drunkard.

When I then ask dad for money, he turns to me and says, "You have a job. Use your money."

I don't tell him I'm saving up to run away from this hellhole with Chloe. I don't tell him I'm going to buy a nice house and car with the money. Instead, I turn around and walk away.

It's cold today. That's what I tell everyone.

That's another thing I hate about sport: the short sleeve shirts. I can't wear short sleeve shirts. Everyone will see my scars.

"It's cold today," I reply, when Zach, one of Martin's friends asks about the jumper.

"You're always cold," he says, eying me suspiciously.

I shrug my shoulders. "I have bad DNA."

He hesitates for a moment before bending down. "Do you sell dope in the change rooms?"

"What?" It comes out louder than expected. I don't know whether to laugh or shit my pants. "Why would you think I do dope?"

"You always wear a jumper."

"I don't sell drugs."

"Fine," he shrugs. "Suit yourself," and walks away.

By the time sport is over, a detention slip and a note to my parents regarding my behaviour, is thrust into my palm by Mr Williamson. "You need to get your act together, young man," he says, "this is Year Twelve. Make the most of it and be responsible."