my knees and I don’t know how he got in, but he did.
Easy
. Lovely boy. Lovely
man
, lovely man.
At seven weeks, brain cells begin to reach out and make contact with each other. Every minute, more than 100,000 new nerve cells are being created. The lobes of the cerebrum, where mental processes will take place and conscious activity will be decided, shine through the forehead skin, as yet unprotected by the cranium.
Less than 4 cm long and less than 15 grams in weight, at eight weeks the embryo possesses all its organs, all nearly fully formed. From now on they will become progressively more refined.
I meet Josh Lewis coming fast down our street.
‘Hi, Josh.’ I’m uncertain, thinking about Ambra.
He doesn’t say anything. A thin arc of his white spit crosses my path.
A noise like ‘pop!’ comes from my mouth and I stagger. I call out after him, ‘What was that for?’
He’s walking away as if nothing’s happened. What
has
happened? What does he know, or think he knows, to make him hateme? And who the hell else knows? I can hardly believe it, except for that splat on the path. It moves as the bubbles burst, like something alive.
… as a means of self-defence it is wholly absurd … a light blow delivered to the testes can render a man as quickly
hors de combat
, flooring him and causing him to lose all further interest in fighting, but without doing him any permanent injury leading to darkness, imbecility or the grave.
Yet the punch to the testes is barred and called a foul … while every wallop to the head and jaws, eyes, nose and ears, all of the delicate sensory organs, is hailed with delight and cheered, particularly when these blows bruise, maim, cut and tear.
Pug’s first pro match is in two weeks up at the Youth Club. ‘You gotta come,’ he says. ‘I want you to be there. You gotta see what it’s all about.’
‘You do? I do?’ I suppose I do. See what all this training is for. I couldn’t expect to watch rehearsals for ever, could I? I
did
expect it, though, when I consider.
Pug watches me hesitate. ‘Come on, mate. It’d really make a difference if you came.’
So I say I will. Christ, I don’t know how I’ll get out on a week-night. Or whether I want to. I don’t want to see Pug getting smacked in the head. If he could
guarantee
me a win, I’d go, no worries, but he won’t say, won’t talk about his chances. What if he’s
creamed
in the first round, knocked flat? I can
see
it so easily! I can see him flat out on the canvas like a starfish. He’d look just like he does when he’s asleep, only bloodier, only not private, not in the half-darkness under the frangipani, but out there under lights with the crowd howling and some bloody great
gorilla
standing over him. Everything in me says
Don’t do it
, but Pug’s committed now. In this part of his life I don’t have a say. To accept, to watch, to support him whatever happens; my role’s astonishingly clear. To keep my mouth shut on my own fears andtremblings, my own hysteria, to tell him he’s the best, with conviction, even when we both know I’m lying.
God, how am I going to get away on that Thursday night? Like he says, I gotta. Whatever happens, I’ve got to be there to see.
Yes, there is a God. Dad’s birthday, of course, the Sunday after the fight. Let’s take dear Father down the coast for the weekend, Mum!
Brilliant
idea! We can muck around on the beach all weekend, and have a nice little family
party
on Sunday night.
Also
, it’ll mean the school week finishes Thursday instead of Friday, so that according to House Rules I’ll be allowed out that night. It means missing out on the weekend with Pug, but at least I’ll see him fight, like I promised. I’ll suggest it to Mum tomorrow morning while Dad’s in the shower.
Done. All I’ve got to do is make up a date with Lisa and I’m out of here!
PS: Mum thought it was a great idea. I nearly laughed out loud as we schemed the whole thing out so
Easy
. Lovely boy. Lovely
man
, lovely man.
At seven weeks, brain cells begin to reach out and make contact with each other. Every minute, more than 100,000 new nerve cells are being created. The lobes of the cerebrum, where mental processes will take place and conscious activity will be decided, shine through the forehead skin, as yet unprotected by the cranium.
Less than 4 cm long and less than 15 grams in weight, at eight weeks the embryo possesses all its organs, all nearly fully formed. From now on they will become progressively more refined.
I meet Josh Lewis coming fast down our street.
‘Hi, Josh.’ I’m uncertain, thinking about Ambra.
He doesn’t say anything. A thin arc of his white spit crosses my path.
A noise like ‘pop!’ comes from my mouth and I stagger. I call out after him, ‘What was that for?’
He’s walking away as if nothing’s happened. What
has
happened? What does he know, or think he knows, to make him hateme? And who the hell else knows? I can hardly believe it, except for that splat on the path. It moves as the bubbles burst, like something alive.
… as a means of self-defence it is wholly absurd … a light blow delivered to the testes can render a man as quickly
hors de combat
, flooring him and causing him to lose all further interest in fighting, but without doing him any permanent injury leading to darkness, imbecility or the grave.
Yet the punch to the testes is barred and called a foul … while every wallop to the head and jaws, eyes, nose and ears, all of the delicate sensory organs, is hailed with delight and cheered, particularly when these blows bruise, maim, cut and tear.
Pug’s first pro match is in two weeks up at the Youth Club. ‘You gotta come,’ he says. ‘I want you to be there. You gotta see what it’s all about.’
‘You do? I do?’ I suppose I do. See what all this training is for. I couldn’t expect to watch rehearsals for ever, could I? I
did
expect it, though, when I consider.
Pug watches me hesitate. ‘Come on, mate. It’d really make a difference if you came.’
So I say I will. Christ, I don’t know how I’ll get out on a week-night. Or whether I want to. I don’t want to see Pug getting smacked in the head. If he could
guarantee
me a win, I’d go, no worries, but he won’t say, won’t talk about his chances. What if he’s
creamed
in the first round, knocked flat? I can
see
it so easily! I can see him flat out on the canvas like a starfish. He’d look just like he does when he’s asleep, only bloodier, only not private, not in the half-darkness under the frangipani, but out there under lights with the crowd howling and some bloody great
gorilla
standing over him. Everything in me says
Don’t do it
, but Pug’s committed now. In this part of his life I don’t have a say. To accept, to watch, to support him whatever happens; my role’s astonishingly clear. To keep my mouth shut on my own fears andtremblings, my own hysteria, to tell him he’s the best, with conviction, even when we both know I’m lying.
God, how am I going to get away on that Thursday night? Like he says, I gotta. Whatever happens, I’ve got to be there to see.
Yes, there is a God. Dad’s birthday, of course, the Sunday after the fight. Let’s take dear Father down the coast for the weekend, Mum!
Brilliant
idea! We can muck around on the beach all weekend, and have a nice little family
party
on Sunday night.
Also
, it’ll mean the school week finishes Thursday instead of Friday, so that according to House Rules I’ll be allowed out that night. It means missing out on the weekend with Pug, but at least I’ll see him fight, like I promised. I’ll suggest it to Mum tomorrow morning while Dad’s in the shower.
Done. All I’ve got to do is make up a date with Lisa and I’m out of here!
PS: Mum thought it was a great idea. I nearly laughed out loud as we schemed the whole thing out so
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