Modern Athlete Magazine Issue 128, March 2020 | Page 20

ROAD RUNNING
They were too caught up in their own lives to deal with
the trauma they were putting their children through.
Grownups forget that kids may not show any sign of
emotional trauma, but that does not mean the wounds
do not exist.
The different ways my brother and I were dealing
with our new domestic situation became apparent
fairly quickly, as the reality of my ‘missing’ mother
set in. Andy found his identity in the structure school
provided, and the discipline it took to become better
at the physical activities he was part of at school
and at home. He excelled in all the sports he tried,
like athletics, soccer and later even rugby. He was
hard-working in class, and a popular boy with good
manners and an eagerness to please. Everybody
loved my brother, and everybody wanted to be in his
presence, including me. But we were becoming like
night and day…
I developed a heavy stutter. I was already labelled
a ‘sensitive child,’ and this new hurdle was a major
setback for me. “Mother and I hoped you would just
grow out of it, that it was just a phase you were going
through. When you went to school and it got worse,
we started to worry.”
Physically, too, Andy and I were very different. I was
slight and tall for my age, while he was well built and
his muscles always toned. I often thought of us as
‘the soldier and the poet.’ I was never going to be
the sporting hero Andy had become, even though I
tried my best to follow in his footsteps, neither was I
especially gifted academically – I was clever, but I was
never really interested in excelling at school.
minutes if he had nothing physical to do. When we
went to the beach, I would find a nice spot and watch
the waves, or sit watching the people jumping into
the surf, while he would be among those diving under
waves and running up and down, making friends with
strangers.
My undisciplined approach to school, sport and
life in general vexed him, and of course my ouma’s
indulgence of my nonchalant attitude made it even
worse. I was taking advantage not only of being
the ‘baby,’ but also I think of the guilt my father and
grandmother felt about my parents’ divorce and the
physical effect it had taken on me.
since primary school, I was a little bit of a delinquent,
getting into fights at school and in the streets,
stealing my Dad’s ‘long-toms’ of Lion Lager, finding
his smokes where he put them either on the bedside
table or in his drawer and taking a few for me and my
friends to smoke while we loitered on the corner or
while we were learning the art of flicking a knife open
in somebody’s back yard.
This was the life that I chose for myself, forsaking all
my grandmother’s teachings, and my decision-making
was helped along by drugs and alcohol that silenced
the voice of compassion and reason shouting at me to
change course and return to the proper path.
My ouma was sure doctors could help with my problem,
so off we went on weekly excursions to seek therapy,
but it proved little help. The time spent travelling once a
week with my ouma were adventures to me. I found it
exciting to get everybody’s attention for that single day,
and I think that appealed to the scared boy inside, so
even if there was a solution to my speech impediment, I
was in no hurry to help them find it. There were many gangs around when I was growing
up, but you couldn’t just jump into any street-gang
and shout, “I want to be a gangster!” It did not
work that way. You had to go through stages of
acceptance, where you had to be brought into the fold
by an existing member and then you just hung around
with the others, slowly proving that you could be a
useful tool to your ‘brothers.’
My stutter became part of my identity, and It reached
a point where I felt that if I was not ‘the boy who
stutters,’ then who the hell was I? It became my
crutch, my excuse, and my admonishing finger at
the world around me. I was ‘telling’ everyone, by not
being able to speak fluently, that this is the result
of all of ‘your’ doing. “See your guilt manifest, you
bastards!” I was shouting accusations at the world
with every struggled word escaping from my distorted
lips. It was stirring the beast that was chained deep
inside. There were three gangs overlapping each other’s
territory in the area of Bonteheuwel where I lived.
The Dixie boys had the largest area, the Dirty Night
Pigs were not as big in numbers, but their reputation
as street warriors was fearsome, and that gave their
brand an almost mythical quality, and the Junky Funky
Kids had the numbers and the flashy leader that made
their stock rise in the eyes of any wannabe gang
member.
Our interests rarely aligned. While I was happy to sit
for hours on end reading, he would be bored within
By the time I was a teenager, the violent ways of
the township had caught my attention. The anger
that was burning inside of me needed an outlet, and
every insult thrown my way was met with rage. Ever
Two
2018
ISSUE
128 MARCH 2020 / www.modernathlete.co.za
20 Oceans
But even in the world of street level gangs you had
feeder groups, the smaller, lesser known gangs
operating in primary schools and highs schools,
recruiting kids into the ways of gang-life and spinning
their own brand of bullshit to entice the boys to
become gangsters. I joined the Jump Street Kids,
named after a very popular TV show of the 80s. Most
of the members were boys I grew up with – the same
friends I stole my Dad’s beer and cigarettes for, the
same guys I played soccer in the street with. I felt at
ease with them, and I wanted to be naughty with them
because it seemed like the cool thing to do.