Thoughts for the Chronic Somnambulist

On the bus today, I had a memory relapse. A memory relapse, to define the term, is when a random and seemingly insignificant past event of my life unburies itself from the archives of the “best left forgotten” pile in the back of my brain, makes it’s way to the frontal lobe and sits there until I figure out why it’s there and what lesson I forgot to learn from the event in question. In this case, the event happened when I was about 8 years old.

It was the summer between 2nd and 3rd grade and, as I had done the previous who knows how many summers before, I was playing football (“soccer” to the native speakers of Americanglish). I was on the team with the pink jerseys and red numbers and, if I remember right, I was number 9. I played right wing defense. I was flipping wicked.  We were playing the team with the blue and white jerseys, which was captained by a 20-foot tall, 45-stone, 9-year-old named Macey. Her position was ”girl who everyone was afraid of so she always got the ball and scored a goal”. On this particular summer day, I remember waking up feeling something like dread but it was dread with a “you’re probably going to die today so get used to the idea” type twist to it, so I put on my jersey and boots and walked out the door breathing deeply as every breath was inevitably my last. And there I stood in my right wing defense position knowing that at any moment the referee was going to blow the whistle, the ball would go to Macey and she would then come for me, and I would then be trampled like a doormat at a Metallica concert. I braced myself. The whistle. The inevitable train cometh; then a thought came simply thus: ”don’t move”. Come again? “Don’t move. Why should you move? It’s your goal so defend it.” I stood there staring then I leaned forward onto my toes, dug in my spikes and ran towards the charging bull. I overestimated the distance between us and ran right into her. I stumbled backwards but managed to stay standing just long enough to watch her fall to the ground and dish the ball off to the keeper. I fell down to the sound of another whistle ending the play and my parents cheering. I was David and Goliath never took me on again.

If you were to ask my father what the proudest day of his life was up to this point, he would tell you the above story. The day the short and stocky got their own back on the tall and massive. That, however, was not why it trekked to the forefront of my mind. That day was the first day that I remember being brave and, incidentally, the last day that I remember being brave. Against all reason, I rushed towards fear and watched it fall, a phenomenon that hasn’t happened much since.

It seems to me that, as an 8-year-old, I understood things that I do not understand now. I am not now brave but I was brave, in my 16 years of life since football where have I lost it? What is bravery in a big people’s world or does the definition change?

I believe the answer lies in our tendency to bury what we don’t want to be, what society tells us we shouldn’t be; with our bad we inevitable bury our good. Our ability to stand decreases when we constantly find ourselves bent digging the hole for the things of our past. For me, the greatest fear is that I am greater than the sum of my parts. Because of this, I dig further.

There was a day in my life when I was brave. One day when I stood alone, daunted but unmoved. The lesson was to do the same everyday and I missed it. I resolved on the bus today to be brave yet again, and maybe to sort out what that entails. Any thoughts on this would be great! It may seem a silly thing but it is my goal and I must defend it.