Curb With Enthusiasm

“First to fifteen wins,” Jeff says, chucking the ball towards the other side of the road and narrowly missing the curb.

“Great start,” Garr laughs. “Now maybe try with your eyes open.”

“Just warming up, smart ass” Jeff says. He grins, then runs onto the road and scoops up the ball.

The three of us are standing out by the road in front of the house, a mowed rectangle of grass under our feet, wearing those great big white leather runners which look great but which start to reek after a week or two of this kind of weather.

The June sun is beating down, skin is toasting, with the waft of sun cream brings back reminders of recent summers, passed in Cork and Sligo and all along the Flaggy Shore. Some other kids are hanging out down the street with a huge getto blaster, playing the Joshua Tree at what seems like full volume.

Jeff mimes an air guitar, then hands the ball to Garr. “Right, genius, let’s see what you have.”

Garr throws it differently, crouching low and slinging it from his outstretched right arm. That’s the challenge of the game; we’ve no idea of physics, of parabolic arcs, of what is the best way to hurl a football at a concrete curb. It’s all trial and error, and that’s all part of the fun.

Thing is, it’s not just about hitting the other curb. If you do it right, if you somehow manage to aim it correctly and to also get the right amount of force, you can sometimes rebound it and hit the curb on your side too. That’s really rare, but really cool, and definitely worth extra bragging rights.

Garr throws, we hold our breath, and he whoops as he makes contact. “That’s one,” he says, then retrieves the ball and hands it to me.

I’m two years older but a whole lot quieter. I’m good at school, which sounds like an advantage, but the teachers don’t realize two things. One, that Garr has dyslexia, something that will only be diagnosed years later. Two, that every time they compare him to me, every time they ask ‘why aren’t you as good as your brother,’ that deepens the divide between us.

He’ll come home in a foul mood, he’ll call me a swot, and we’ll end up arguing for hours.

But not today. School holidays means a thaw, with those teachers far, far away, likely being tactless with their own kids rather than someone else’s. And so when the sun shines we get out on the road and play tennis, throw marbles or, like today, fire footballs across the road in the hope they will boomerang.

I stand there for a moment, ball in hand, trying to work out what to do. Jeff usually throws from overhead like a footballer, looping the ball high in the air. Garr hurls it in that one armed way. And me? I make it up as I go along, and hope that I don’t make a complete fool of myself.

“Come on,” I mutter to myself, quiet enough so neither Garr or Jeff notice. “Don’t make a mess of this.”

I step forward, clasping the ball to my chest, balance on the edge of this side, fix my sights on the far side and then fire it, fulling believing it’s a winner.

It skites awkwardly, hitting the ground well short, and then rebounds upwards to sail over the far laurel hedging and into the Maloney’s garden. A pigeon startles and bolts, loud wings clawing skywards.

“Go on Stevie Wonder,” Garr shouts, shaking his head.

My stomach tightens. “I’ll get it next time,” I say, “Jeff missed his too.”

“Not by that much, you muppet” Jeff hollers, then grins. He’s spent so much time in our house that he’s practically a brother, but there’s none of the sibling rivalry.

In fact he’s a link between us, a conduit to all hang out together.

The minutes tick by. I gradually relax, manage to rack up some points. The sun lowers a little, the shadows skew sideways and the game draws towards an end.

Garr has 14 points, just one to win. I’m stuck on 10, nothing exceptional but enough to fend off the worst of the slagging. As for Jeff, he is on 12 but has missed his past three throws.

“Two pounds to the winner,” Garr says.

“Make it three,” Jeff replies, then steps forward and absolutely horses the ball.

Something happens which never happened before and will never happen again.

Jeff does something with his wrists just as it leaves his hands, a peculiar, inspired twist which came out of nowhere but which sets the ball spinning. The black and white pentagons and hexagons blur as it flies, and when it hits the curb it rebounds, arcs high up in the air, recrosses the road and wallops into the curb just in front of us.

And then it’s skywards again, still spinning, still turning, crossing the road once more and curving downwards. It looks like it’s going to fall short but somehow the far side of it makes contact, making a thunk which is completely drowned out by our roars.

We shout so loud that Mrs Maloney across the road comes to her window, peering out through the blinds with concern on her face.

“That’s 15,” says Jeff, smiling, one fist clenching briefly as he shakes his head. Garr and myself have lost, but we don’t care a jot. “How the feck did you do that?” I say, awkwardly clapping him on the back. Garr does the same, and will retell the story time and time again in the years after, right up to the time Jeff, close friend and near-brother, suddenly dies at 32.

His luck ran out, an undiagnosed heart issue taking him suddenly. But on that long lazy day back in the 80s, that magical time of white runners and loud ghetto blasters, of sun and summer games, anything and everything seemed possible.