Page 29 of Playing By Ear

Though he hated pulling his gaze away, he had to be polite. Which one is your Brian? he typed.

She held up nine fingers, then pointed to the trio of players tussling for the ball against the far kickboard. The one at the center of the melee, wearing the Glasgow Blind number nine shirt, was a short, muscular, apparently fearless Black man. Brian won the ball, pulled it behind him with his foot, then spun round to snag it on his instep. He swept toward the goal, gliding across the floor. Each deft touch of the ball seemed a natural part of his stride.

A defender sprang into Brian’s path with a shout of “Voy!”

Brian swerved to avoid him, but the defender poked the ball away. Sarah’s husband spilled to the floor in as clean a tackle as Jamie had ever seen.

He looked at Sarah, her face twisted into the football fan’s version of The Scream painting. “Fuck!” she mouthed, pounding her fists on her knees.

The player who’d stolen the ball barreled straight down the middle of the pitch. Jamie’s toes twitched inside his trainers as he observed the meticulous dribbling the blind players had to do to keep control. A foot touched the ball at nearly every step. How did they keep their balance, especially with their eyes covered?

The goalkeeper shouted, “In front of me!” at his defenders, who dashed to cut down the angle between him and the attacker. In response, the Dundee player darted to his right. Would he have a clear shot before running past the goal line out of play?

“You’re in the D!” called the Dundee guide coach behind the goal. The attacker took his shot. The ball spun past the goalkeeper and into the corner of the net.

“Oh my God,” Jamie said, forgetting to be quiet. Luckily, half the crowd had just stood and cheered.

“Dundee are infuriatingly good.” Sarah gave a few reluctant claps, then patted Dodger, who’d been awakened by the hubbub. He blinked up at Jamie and offered a placid tail wag, then laid his head between his inky paws and closed his soft brown eyes.

A childhood memory burbled up: Jamie lying on the living room rug beside Sterling, his father’s gentle giant, poking his fingertip between the pads of those huge gray paws. Martin’s current mastiff, Layla, would probably swallow his head if he dared such a familiarity.

Play resumed, but Jamie kept his eyes on Perry, who stood behind the near kickboard, his right toe planted on the floor as he did warmup ankle rolls.

A whistle blew, catching Jamie’s attention. Glasgow had been awarded a free kick. A Dundee player shook his head in dismay.

Team foul, Sarah wrote. Penalty awarded after the 5th one.

The players lined up for a free kick. A referee placed the ball at the spot of the foul and tapped it with his foot until two Glasgow players met him.

Another whistle blew, this one longer. Sarah batted Jamie’s elbow and pointed toward the Glasgow bench.

His stomach fluttered. Perry was coming on.

The referee had Perry lift his mask—presumably to make sure the gauze fully covered his eyes—then opened a hinged door in the kickboard along the touchline. With a hand on the official’s shoulder for guidance, Perry went over to his two teammates at the free-kick spot.

Jamie lifted his hands to applaud, then stopped himself in time. Sarah smiled and patted his arm.

Jamie pulled his hoodie sleeves over his fingers to muffle any accidental clapping. Even in the event of a goal, Jamie would stay quiet so Perry wouldn’t hear him. Such a surprise wouldn’t be welcome.

After all, Jamie wasn’t meant to be here. He wasn’t meant to be in Perry’s life, full stop.

Perry was going on. (On! Such a small word containing so much possibility.) The time for nerves had ended. He had to forget how audacious it was to run around kicking a ball with one’s eyes covered, like in some sadistic children’s game.

He reached Brian and Kenneth and relayed the instructions their coach had given him verbally while sketching it out on his palm. “Graeme says I’m to take the free kick. Brian, you lay it off for me, and Kenneth, you go left on the whistle and take my pass. That’s their weaker side, he says.”

“He speaks truth.” Kenneth thumped Perry on the back as he stepped away.

“You got this, mate.” Brian toed the ball to jingle it. Perry shifted to place it loosely between his feet. Brian stepped behind him and placed his foot atop the ball.

Perry listened, trying to picture the space around him based on the sounds bouncing off the kickboards. His echolocation skills were rudimentary at best.

The whistle tweeted. Brian batted the ball forward a few inches, then Perry took it.

The first dribble was the hardest. After years of the sighted and partially sighted game, his feet still expected a light ball that would shoot forward at the slightest touch. This one had to be nudged along continuously, as though it was lazy. If he wasn’t careful, it would lodge under his foot and send him sprawling arse over tit.

He overcompensated on his second touch, and the ball got away before he could pass to Kenneth. Perry lunged to regain control as a defender rushed up on his left with a shouted “Voy,” cutting off that passing lane.

Instinctively, Perry veered right. As he drove forward with the ball, his arms waved to maintain balance, like he was riding a skateboard.