CHOCKIE by Richard de Nooy - Short Story Day Africa

CHOCKIEfrom Kaiser Chiefs, Moroka Swallows or Orlando Pirates showed up at the pitch.“He drives a red Land Rover,” said Chockie.“Kak, man! How do you know?” you asked.“I heard it on the radio,” said Chockie.“Yeah right. But why would he wanna watch you okes!”“The coach said he’d come.”“What exactly did he say?”“That the scouts come to see the Young Stars.”“Bullshit, man! You okes mean less than nothing to them.”“Hau,” said Chockie. “Come and watch us then.”“Where? In the location, I suppose? We can’t go there.”“Not in the location. On the field by Aloe Ridge.”That was how we had ended up on the edge of that rectangular desert, with its roaming clumpsof grass, its shaky lines drawn in the dust, and its tree-trunk goalposts, rammed together withnine-inch nails, their rusty points protruding.Hubbub erupted as the rival team pulled up in a minibus. Meyerton United – 13 players, acoach and two assistants, who later proved to be drunk.The ref had also arrived. A short, stout man who seemed to have anointed his entirebody with Vaseline. He shimmered in the sun. He had clearly donned his referee’s kit at the ageof twelve and had kept it on ever after. But somehow he exuded Mussolinian authority. He blewa shrill blast on his whistle and haughtily waved away Meyerton United’s plea to be allowed awarm-up.The Roman Youngsters’ coach also asked him to wait because his star striker had yet toreturn. That was Chockie. After a quick confab, you and your brother hopped on your bikes tofetch him, with Ishmael riding shotgun to show the way. You pedalled uphill like maniacs andhad just hopped off to run the last stretch to the rise, when Chockie appeared over the horizon.He had your tattered North Stars in one hand and ball of long socks in the other. Without sayinga word, he hopped on the back of your bike and you flew downhill, as if you wanted to rattle thelast teeth out of the sheep skull.When you arrived at the pitch, panting, the game had yet to start. In fact, everyonewas awaiting your return. They had three balls, but they were all flat. There was a murmur ofdisappointment when they saw that neither of you had a bicycle pump. But then they spottedme.“Can we borrow your ball please, kleinbaas?” asked the ref.“Sure. But we have to be home by five,” you said.“Baie dankie, kleinbaas,” chorused the men.Within a couple minutes, the match was hidden behind a thick veil of dust. This did not improvethe quality of play. I was blindly hoofed in all directions and had lost all hope of finding thefamiliar feet of the Master, when he suddenly appeared. He cradled me gently on his instep,Richard de Nooy2

CHOCKIEchipped me over an incoming tackle, coaxed me nimbly through a forest of flesh, and then struckme with pure force. My sublime trajectory ended against the bottom of the bar, from whence Ibounced into the goal and rolled into the long grass, deeply satisfied.Chockie scored three more goals in the space of ten minutes. By then, the men fromMeyerton had had enough. Somewhere in the darkest heart of the dust cloud, the Master wasrudely kicked to the ground. The ensuing exchange of words soon became a bumping quarreland then a full-on fistfight, accompanied by the shrill whistle of the referee, who darted around inthe dust like a runaway train, thrusting himself between fighting players.I did not see the end of this tragic opera from nearby, because I caught a wild kick from anangry boot that sent my high into the clear air above the whirling dust. I enjoyed a brief momentof blissful inertia before gravity’s suck kicked in.I bounced only once before you caught me. You gazed in silent awe as the whirlwindmoved back and forth over the field, whistling. You squinted through the dust, shading your eyesfrom the low sun.You checked your watch in horror. Quarter to five! You showed your brother the time. Hegot the message. Side by side you sprinted to your bikes. I was roughly jammed between yoursaddle and carrier once more. Within seconds, the sheep skull was chattering like a Flamencodancer on speed. Standing on the pedals, hanging low over the handlebars, you raced home, eyeslike slits against the dust and setting sun, blinded by the need to get home quick.Neither of you saw the oncoming car that passed on down the road. It watched as it drovehesitantly, searching. A red Land Rover.Shared by the author for Short Story Day Africa 2013: www.shortstorydayafrica.orgRichard de Nooy (1965) grew up in Johannesburg, but has lived in Amsterdam for the past25 years. His first novel Six Fang Marks & a Tetanus Shot (Jacana, 2007) won the University ofJohannesburg Prize for Best First Book, received honourable mention at the M-Net Literary Award,and was long-listed for the Sunday Times Fiction Award. De Nooy was awarded a grant by theDutch Foundation for Literature to write his second novel in Dutch.Richard de Nooy3