American dream, tarnished

It was an OK day for me; I spent a fair bit of time talking with Claire about Universities, etc. In fourth lesson we all had a discussion about immigrants and racism. Claire confessed, “I suppose I am racist, really." I didn’t feel at all uneasy and tongue-tied as I normally always do.

Our General Studies lesson was excellent. Two visiting speakers came and gave a slide show called “The American Dream, Tarnished,” interspersed with readings from the letters of George Jackson, Catch 22 and One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. I got totally absorbed by it.

The school mag’ came out today; it looks quite good.

Flare-up

A horrible day at school. I had a flare-up with Jeremy which must've seemed so bitter, cantankerous, and unprovoked. I found myself getting tongue-tied and speechless and told him to “piss off.” So eloquent. I also felt impotent in my dealings with Claire and she snapped at me in History. I can’t help sounding so bloody pathetic now. I detest the trap I’m in, and yet it’s purely in my own mind.

In the evening, I eagerly listened to Athletic’s match at Scawcroft. When I heard it was 2-0 I could hardly believe it and I felt something akin to total joy! Then it was 2-1, and then 3-1, so that's now 23 goals in 7 matches, 15 in just the last 4 games. Athletic are now second, behind Cross End, and surely they must be promoted this season.

Wishes

When I walked into the common room, there was Claire. I was glad to see her and we talked a lot, but on my part I sensed her lack of enthusiasm and she laughed silently when Duncan kept making insinuations about us. I couldn’t work on my History essay, couldn't shake that old, old feeling of lethargy; no motivation, overwhelmed by work, reduced to crawling at school tomorrow. . . .

I'm so full of wishes about Claire, but I'm so incapable.

Intention

My intention to work didn’t materialise until late in the evening when I finished my art essay on political and social change in art, concentrating on the Constructivists and Suprematists. I found it all highly complicated! Weather wise, it was rainy and cold.

I watched Ken Russell’s superb film about Tchaikovsky, which was horrific in parts, especially Glenda Jackson’s asylum scene.

Game of two halves

Woke up late to leaden skies and a torrential, steady downpour. The prospects for the match looked poor.

At two I rang Athletic up. The match was definitely on, so at two-thirty Dad and I set off. It was the first soccer match he'd been to for years and I was glad he was going, and prayed there'd be no trouble. The Shed was packed, and got even more so as people flooded through the broken fence from the Easterby End to avoid the rain.

Athletic started well, attacking toward the Easterby End and the Whitehill goal in typical fashion; Whitehill looked quick and sharp but could rarely get in shots. After half-an-hour, Athletic got a free-kick on the edge of the box; virtually every Whitehill player in there, and up steps Wild, shoots the ball straight over the defence and past the statuesque goalkeeper. 1-0! I catch a glimpse of Dad’s obviously delighted face. Several more chances after this but then it was half-time.

The rain was steady and continuous for most of the second half and Athletic looked less confident and Whitehill started to outpace the Athletic defence making them look ragged. Sure enough, just before the hour, someone missed a cross and the ball was volleyed into the net. Then almost immediately, McArdle got a penalty. Unbearable tension and—wham!! Straight over the crossbar. Whitehill dominant now, the Athletic players looking jaded and slow, and it was a siege. They looked to be holding out for the draw when, right at full time, Broome took the ball and shot home for the winner. Total jubilation, everyone, clapping and leaping about. It was an unfair result but I don’t care!

Dad seemed to have enjoyed it, and when Robert rang he said he was glad he had. I’m going to Hydebeck next week.

I’m really getting into my Floyd album. . . .