My uncle claimed that my father wore a black armband on school sports day; my father denied it, probably because he didn’t want me doing the same. The discretion of his denial made me love the story more.
Curiously, it still saddens me that I ever had to wear this damned object. I see it and I am a 16-year-old hiding in the school lavatories, smoking, when I was supposed to have been putting it on and running around a field, trying to avoid being wrestled to the mud and stamped on.
I will never wear this again; but it reminds me that no matter how miserable or bored I am, life could always be worse: I could be playing rugby.
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