Style from Beckett's Waiting for Godot.
Backbone
‘Cold tonight.’
‘Mm.’
‘The boys don’t seem to notice.’
‘They notice. They keep moving.’
A whistle blew at the far end. A group of teenagers jogged back towards the cones without much urgency.
‘One of mine wanted to quit football last month.’
‘Oh?’
‘Said it made him anxious.’
‘Did he?’
‘Apparently the coach shouted at him.’
‘Did the coach shout at him?’
‘Probably. Coaches shout.’
The other parent laughed quietly.
‘What did you say?’
‘I nearly told him to stop going.’
‘But?’
‘But I realised I mostly wanted the feeling to stop. Mine, not his.’
The floodlights hummed overhead.
‘He still goes?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How come?’
‘I told him he could quit at the end of the season. Just not on the night he was upset.’
‘That annoyed him?’
‘Very.’
‘Still annoyed?’
‘Less now.’
A silence settled between them while a ball rolled loose across the wet grass.
‘My daughter says school makes her feel stupid.’
‘That’s a hard sentence.’
‘Mm.’
‘What do you say back?’
‘I tried reassuring her at first. You know. “You’re brilliant.” “Don’t worry about grades.” All the usual things.’
‘And?’
‘She relaxed for about ten minutes.’
The other parent smiled.
‘Then what?’
‘Then she failed another maths test.’
A boy near the car park kicked at a puddle instead of getting into his father’s car.
‘She wanted me to tell her she just wasn’t a maths person.’
‘And did you?’
‘No.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked her whether she thought getting things wrong was proof she couldn’t learn them.’
‘That went down well, I imagine.’
‘Like a house fire.’
The first parent smiled for the first time.
‘Still true though.’
‘Probably.’
The whistle blew again.
‘Feels harder now,’ one of them said. ‘Parenting.’
‘Harder than what?’
‘Than when we were younger.’
‘You think?’
‘Everything feels more fragile.’
The other parent watched the teenagers gathering their bags.
‘I’m not sure they’re more fragile.’
‘No?’
‘I think we intervene sooner.’
A long pause followed that.
‘Mine says people don’t understand him.’
‘Maybe they don’t.’
‘What do you do with that?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Whether he wants understanding or surrender.’
The first parent looked across the pitch.
‘That’s harsh.’
‘No. Harsh would be letting him believe the world stops every time he feels wounded.’
The teenagers started drifting towards the gate now. Loud again. Shouting. Swearing. Throwing bottles into bins from impossible distances.
‘Funny thing is,’ the second parent said, ‘I don’t actually want confident kids anymore.’
‘No?’
‘I want capable ones.’
‘Difference?’
‘Confidence disappears the moment life hits back.’
‘And capable?’
‘Capable keeps going.’