“Yeah, mate, he was good. Blinker on. He would have killed you on the football ground. Has he ever mentioned he’s been sick?”
“Ohh, yeah, no, sort of. Not really but. Did he get sick, did he? Is that why he hasn’t finished school?” I was displaying the full suite of my forensic powers of deduction.
“Yeah,” my dad said, “he did get sick. Watch the road. Perhaps you should ask him.”
I agreed that perhaps I would, but got distracted in class by Naomi's industrial yet conflicted flirting and didn't get round to it until I saw him on Saturday morning.
Obviously, I didn’t ask him when we were getting changed, because no one should cop a heavy question when all they’re wearing is lucky underpants. I didn’t ask him when we were warming up either, because it was so windy and so cold I was flat-chat trying to warm anything. I finally pulled the trigger as we trotted back to the sheds for the coach's last rocket. I floated to the back of the steaming pack and slowed down a bit, and Stevie, being alright, slowed to keep my company.
“How’s it going, mate? You ready?” I asked. He yeah-no'ed and puffed. He'd be OK, he hoped. It'd been a while but. He was pretty unfit, bit nervous.
“You’ll be right, champ” — as if I knew — “but, but how come you haven't played for ages?”
Grey eyes peering up out of the corner of his grey face, Stevie said he'd got sick.
“Yup, ya told me,” Dammit — it was now or … well, Monday, come to think of it. No, bugger it: “How sick? What sort of sick?”
“Pretty sick.” Stevie sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Cancer sick.”
“Huh,” I said. “Right.”
Ice ages came and went.
“Twice,” he continued. I stopped. Stevie didn’t, but turned and jogged backwards. He said he got leukaemia at 14 but didn’t die, and then he got non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma — the bad one — when he was 17, and still hadn't died. “I’m basically just looking forward to playing.” He grinned over his shoulder as he trotted into the sheds.
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