| Sports |
The day Murph called
around
Sometimes, the best
thing to do on a day is to stay in bed, writes JACK METTA
IT was one of those days – one that
you regret ever getting out of bed.
Westerners, being the smart people they are, normally file these
days under someone’s less-than-bright folder called Murphy’s Law.
How and why it is referred to as such escapes this Root’s
comprehension, but it points to an Irish name and if the stories
we hear about the Irish are any indication, then there’s some
logic in the reference.
There was an obscure book you came across somewhere titled “Are
you Irish or normal?” so that certainly figures.
A quick research turned up the following: Murphy’s Law is a
popular adage in Western culture that broadly states that things
will go wrong in any given situation, if you give them a chance.
If there’s more than one way to do a job, and one of those ways
will result in disaster, then somebody will do it that way.
It is most often cited as “Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong”
(or, alternately, “Whatever can go wrong will go wrong, and at the
worst possible time”, or, “Anything that can go wrong, will,” or
even, “If anything can go wrong, it will, and usually at the most
inopportune moment”).
It turns up when you least expect it. But once things do start to
happen, you begin to realise you should have stayed in bed.
Rachel likens it to getting up on the wrong side of the bed after
observing her father staggering and feeling his way through the
corridors of their lean-to towards the outhouse.
She knows how it is and feels an inner warmth seep through her
being – a feeling perhaps of love and sympathy.
Dad probably didn’t sleep last night anyway, she thought. No
doubt, he had a five-hour battle with the bedbugs and the
mosquitoes and lost.
He had rings around the eyes the shape of great big shiners.
Mum thought they looked like the halo on the moon.
He was in a sour mood so everybody who was up early shied away
from him, lest they invited that big foot from being exercised on
their backs.
He made his way groggily to the loo and pushed at the door.
It would not open. He banged it.
The sounds invited curious looks through the windows and doors of
the neighbours.
Everyone thought he was funny the way he was wriggling his bum and
banging on the door.
Rachel and family knew that if he knew they were giggling, he
would think it wasn’t funny at all and physically drive that point
home.
Amid the moans and groans and several more hard raps on the door
of the outhouse, he barked out orders that the occupant vacate the
premises immediately.
There was no immediate response and after a few more desperate
thumps, he was forced by the strength of the need to seek
alternative venue.
Relieved, he was returning to the showers when he spied his
younger daughter pushing at the toilet door. She did something to
the latch and it gave way.
A realisation dawned on him and he swore.
Mum had been reminding him all this time to fix the latch on the
door.
Nobody was occupying the loo in the first place when he first
sought its relieving comforts.
Next thing to do was to have a nice cold shower.
He could not locate his towel so he ‘borrowed’ mum’s, which was
hanging on the line outside anyway.
Mum screamed at him and he poked his tongue at her.
He found his toothbrush but somebody had already utilised the last
squeeze of the toothpaste.
He found his shaving gear after a good search of the nook and
crannies in the house where he leaves them and discovers that the
razor blade had gone walkabout.
He screamed his son’s name just to relieve himself of the pent-up
anger.
He knew where the razor ended up. The son was always nicking the
razor blade from his shaver to cut rubber with his friends to make
catapults.
With a night-old stubble, pasteless toothbrush and an inflating
desire to literally murder somebody, he stumbles into the shower.
He undresses and in the process, a little accident occurred with
the zipper. Whimpering, he stands beneath the shower, turns on the
tap and closes his eyes to relish the first drops of what would be
the most refreshing water, he has ever had the privilege of been
under.
Nothing happens.
He opens his eyes and a dribble rains down on him before stopping
altogether in a few seconds.
He stood there, the little dribble of water gliding down one side
of his face.
Seconds turned to minutes and minutes to one terribly impatient
man.
He swore and he ranted and the sound of his voice was so loud, it
could have woken the dead.
But he got it out of his system, so to speak. The vibrations set
off by his frustrations could be felt right throughout the
precincts.
After five minutes or so, he saunters out of the shower-room,
wrapped only in mum’s towel and was greeted by his Engan kaimos
(brothers). One of them owned a tuckershop down the road.
As was common in their part of the world, they make it a habit of
indulging in all-night binges.
The indications were clear as day.
The evidence in fact, were in their hands, not to mention, the
bloodshot eyes, the noisy and slurred communications and the half
empty crate one of them carried.
It could have reminded Dad of those sentimental days when he was
supposed to count the ways he loved Mum.
On this occasion though, Rachel thought the situation called for
how many ways they repulsed her and there were enough to fill an
encyclopaedia. Dad thought they arrived in time, though.
What else could go wrong on the day? “Due to the poor quality of
water, I’ll stick to booze” had been his motto when the taps ran
dry in the settlement.
There’s certainly logic in the saying, “birds of the same feather
flock together” after all.
And Dad, in his current frame of mind, may have needed a quick
fix.
They settled under the house, dad unwashed, unshaven, undressed
and generally unhygienic and it seemed like the arrival of his
friends was going to make it all go away.
But as they got into the swing of things, an argument broke out
and during the confusion, an empty bottle thrown in anger,
accidentally smashed on Dad’s head, rendering him unconscious for
the next couple of hours during which time, he woke up in his bed
and thought he never left it.
He was actually looking forward to going and watching his
favourite game at the Lloyd Robson Oval but there was always the
The National to catch up on the latest news.
He had a terrible headache but amidst the throbbing in his head,
he could have sworn, he had a little voice saying: “A man begins
cutting his wisdom tooth the moment he bites off more than he
could chew … Temptations always promises more than it produces …”
 
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