What a wellington boot can teach you
Colin Ogilvie
The mixture of half melted ice and mud was at the ambient temperature for freezing the welly clad toes of the pupils. I'll never forget a mental picture I had of them encased in a pair of Marks and Spencer navy socks; and within each sock individual toes contained in a block of ice.
It was lunch time and the boys participated in the ritualistic football match. I say football using the loosest possible sense of the word. In reality it consisted of anywhere up to thirty rampaging 8 year olds in a playground. It was a heady mixture of water, slush, sweat and somewhere in the midst of the melee a ball. To be honest I was rotten at football, still am, but very occasionally an opportunity presents itself to me to shine at the beautiful game.
I cannot claim it was great positioning play on my part rather being at the right place at the right time, but due to some act of ludicrous fortune I found myself in front of the goals with the ball at my feet. A small brick built shelter served the purpose of the goals as two pillars propping up the roof of the shelter made ideal goalposts.
Fate has a cruel sense of humour as not only was goals in front of me but also the opposing goal keeper was posted absent. Where he was I didn't know, off to buy another Freddo bar from the tuck shop or report to the school secretary with severe frostbite. Either way I didn't care.
I was determined to seize my moment of glory; I swung my welly clad right foot and waited for the adulation of my peers as I scored a world class playground goal.
That day I will never forget, as I will never forget these wellies. Firstly they stick in my mind because for some reason best known to my mother she thought wellies with a row of ladybirds around the rim was simply delightful. To an eight year old boy they were a badge of shame and an endless cause of laughter for my classmates. My first ever punishment exercise was in an Art lesson where we asked to paint daffodils I chose to spend the time trying to paint out the ladybirds to make it uniformly black.
Secondly both the day and the footwear were burned into my memory as the fiercely struck ball was followed by the right boot as they both sailed serenely over the shed. My glory was gone. I was left standing precariously balanced on one clad foot in a grey and cold puddle.
They say children are cruel. It's true. If I listen carefully to my memories I can still hear that particular mocking bray of a laugh that children often perfect. I can remember the flush of prickling, itching heat that comes with embarrassment. For the first time all during the lunch break I was hot but I did not welcome it. I wanted to turn back time. I wanted to stop everything, the stupid game. Most of all I wanted the laughter to stop. But I was immobile, wearing one boot and no where to hide. I had no option but to listen.
But now I am much older and still possibly the worst footballer Scotland has ever produced I wonder why I remember this day. I wonder why it remains with me. I wonder why when I think of all the other memories I have; I chose to write about this one. Why this day? Is it about me or is it about the process of growing up? For whilst we say children are cruel and may frown and rebuke them, why do so many of them grow up to be adults that still enjoy the guilty pleasure of watching others suffer and squirm.
Now I think about it; that much hated Wellie has taught me about grace. And when I am tempted to heap coals on the heads of other with scorn and cold mirth (and how delicious but unsatisfying that is) at their shortcomings and failings; an airborne wellie becomes a vivid reminder of my own pain.
Some people have a guru to make them a better person. Some employ a life coach. Me? I think I'll stick with my wellie to remind me that no matter who we are, we are all worthy of respect. If I remember that then maybe I will be a better man for it, and that day will be one of the most important in my life.
