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“I won’t repeat myself. You want to be a man, then you make the choice.”
Amelia, although shocked and disapproving, didn’t argue with Stephen present. She knew this was not a battle she or Stephen could win and did not want her son to see her in the midst of battle with his father.
Stephen couldn’t believe that his father was willing to kick him out if he didn’t agree to play football. He was relieved that his father didn’t hit him again, but he was still shocked that he had to choose between his home or his newfound dream. Ultimately, he did what most pre-teen children would do in a similar situation and conformed to his father’s wishes. After the moment it took him to decide, Stephen stopped looking at his father, let his gaze drop to the floor, and went straight to his bedroom.
He didn’t speak to his parents for the rest of the night. He didn’t even wish them a goodnight as he normally would. He didn’t take off his clothes or get a glass of water. He just closed the door to his room, curled up into a ball under his sheets, and did his best to sleep. He heard a muffled argument between his parents shortly after he left the dinner table, but it was quickly ended when Stephen heard his mother head to their bedroom alone.
There were no tears from Stephen that night, just a sadness that built up in him thinking about the dream he’d created for himself, which had been taken away as quickly as it they had come. As it has happened countless times before, an adult came along and crushed every hope a child had of achieving their dreams—just like someone did to them when they were younger, continuing the spiteful cycle of destroyed hope. Stephen didn’t sleep much that night. Instead, he reminisced and began to think about what he would do now that he could not do what he had already set his heart on.
Although it had been less than a day since he’d learned about gymnastics, Stephen felt heartbreak for the first time. It hadn’t been caused by a girl or a failed relationship or rejection; it stemmed from the denial of his first dream. The first loss of hope he had experienced in life. Hope to achieve a dream that hadn’t been influenced by his father or mother. It was his dream, and like so many others, it had been stopped by someone else before it could even start.
* * *
“Did you make it on the football team?” I asked Stephen as he continued to smile.
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” Stephen said. “My father had me train like a Spartan after that, and they put me on the JV team because I was a freshman but, in a few weeks, I made varsity.”
Stephen paused for a moment and glanced down as he gave a scoffing laugh and scrunched his nose. “You know, I look back and I remember playing on that team. I did have some fun and I was really good too. I even ended up starting at wide receiver as a sophomore, but the most fulfilled I felt playing football was when I would complete a huge play, and everyone was cheering and congratulating me on my performance. I would look up to the stands and see my father there, and he would have the biggest smile on his face. I never saw him happier. I felt proud to see that something I did could give him so much joy. Looking back now, though, and remembering his smiling face just makes me feel sick. Not with him. It’s more that I’m embarrassed with myself and the way I craved his approval and acceptance.”
Stephen took a deep breath in. “He should’ve been able to accept me for what I was and not cared whether liked the same things he did. Everyone is different, with different interests and opinions, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t get along with them. That’s how society evolves—living and working with people who have different points of view. If you aren’t exposed to different ideas and perspectives, you can never grow.” He stopped again.
It seemed he’d wanted to continue his rant but had stopped himself, and eyes widened slightly, was looking down. Finally, he brought his head up and was smiling again—so much so that even his eyes appeared to be smiling—he squinted so much I could barely see his irises.
“I’m sorry. That stuff wasn’t important, and I’m sure you don’t find it interesting.” He seemed eerily happy.
“Actually, I don’t mi—”
Stephen raised his left hand to cut me off. I got the impression he wanted to change the topic. I was confused, but there were still things I wanted to know. “Is that why you don’t even want to give me your father’s name?” I asked. “Are you angry with him because he made you give up your dream of trying out for gymnastics? Do you think he’s partially to blame for you’re being in here? For your execution?”
The smile shrank from Stephen’s face. “The only one to blame for my being in here is me. I committed my crimes, and I did so knowingly. I cannot give any excuses or blame anyone but myself. With that said, no, I am not angry at my father for having made me give up on gymnastics. I do not wish to give you his name because he’s a failure of a man and his name does not deserve to be remembered, though I will admit that being forced to give up my childhood dream was cause for resentment in my younger years and created some tension in our household, my disgust for him wouldn’t come until many years later.”
