Kill Will (November 2007) by Kerrin Kokot
Get dirty!
Break-ups can be nice and they can be messy. Ex-boyfriends beware – we have ways of exacting revenge. Like on the football field
The grass is muddy, torn-up and pockmarked with holes. It’s hot; I wipe a slick arm across my forehead, smearing grease, sweat and dirt into my hair as I tuck it behind an ear. I’m focusing on the ball. It’s coming towards me. It hops neatly through the legs of the defender. I curse, spit and ready myself for battle. He picks up speed: my ex, Will, who shared my bed for three years, punts the ball not at the empty egg of space to my left but at me – straight into my gut. I crumple around it, remembering to hold on, and collapse.
Will was my first big deal. I admit that I did all the typical girlie things; pouring over his letters as if I could unlock from them unearthly, profound truths; pretending not to care if he needed his own space but secretly loving every moment together; fantasising about having kids with his perfect genes; and, most of all, being painfully vocal about how completely ridiculous gender stereotypes are. Mmm.
Then we split up. Our parting was cordial, but deep down we were furious at each other. He started dating some barely-legal stick. I retaliated by swinging a Swiss hunk on my arm at every opportunity. They say that time helps, but in a year my anger had festered into a raw, gangrenous fury bubbling just beneath the skin. I hated seeing him at parties. We’d try to be polite but would inevitably start to bicker. Things would get personal, the host would get twitchy and, finally, one of us would leave miserable or mad as hell.
They say that time helps, but in a year my anger had festered into a raw, gangrenous fury
So when a mutual friend invited me to his social soccer club, I dug out my old togs, checked my shin pads and went shopping for an intimidating neon sweat band. But when Sunday came, I hovered, contemplating Will’s presence. Then, to everyone in range, I screamed: “I refuse to let this man affect my life!” There would just have to be a gentleman’s agreement. Or whatever the gendercorrect term is today.
I needn’t have worried. Will and I certainly came to an agreement. It happened during the second half. Our teams were tied: two-all, and the field action was heating up. We had all been rather nice to each other in the first round, but after the goals were scored, people started getting serious. And nasty. When a few rough tackles were passed off as friendly rough-and-tumble, I had an epiphany. I was on holy ground: The Sportsfield. Here you are allowed to kick, maim and scratch other people to your heart’s content. It’s even considered civilised! So I did. I ran into Will, I kicked his shins (bad tackle, whoops!), I knocked him off course and, in the process, was totally beaten up myself. It felt great. This was our new-found bond: a dirty, barbaric outlet of rage. After a year of boring friends with my personal drama, throwing things at romantic movies and reading overpriced self-helps to ease my suffering, I realised a simple truth: human beings are not civilised. So when Will hammers the ball at me, I roll over, clutch my guts and the ball.
“Damn, missed again!” pretended Will, watching me out the corner of his eye while our friends asked if I was okay. I told them not to worry, I’d never felt better, and watched the back of Will’s neck as he ran into position while I prepared to throw. At that moment I wanted very badly to break it. I grinned violently and threw long. Our friends looked a bit worried, but Will and I felt great. We even shook hands at the end of the match! (His team won, the bastards). My advice: screw therapy. Just run into each other until one of you bleeds.
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