Jonathan

Jonathan

She was a small woman with a big voice. As she sat in the bleachers watching her son play soccer, she constantly yelled “I like it Jonathan!” Jonathan didn’t do that much good out there on the field, but when he did, “I like it Jonathan!” would come from his mother.

Very soon, the opposing players picked up on the cry of encouragement and began saying it just loud enough for Jonathan to hear, “She likes it, Jonathan,” “She likes it, Jonathan,” and the cry somehow took on a different meaning, at least they way they said it. It was too embarrassing, but the mother kept on, kept on encouraging her son in this way, and he began to move slower with his head down.

The ride home was awkward. Jonathan’s team had lost the game, and his mother tried to lift his spirits the moment they left the field.

“You’re the best they have on that team. If everyone would just keep up, you’d win one,” she said. “I’m just saying you shouldn’t feel so down on yourself because of something that isn’t even your fault. Cheer up.”

That was all that was said about the game. Shortly after leaving the game his mother remembered a sale at Macy’s and decided she must stop by.

While she was in the store, Jonathan sat on a park bench outside. As he waited he watched a group of kids his own age skateboarding across the parking lot. They stopped in an abandoned corner where they began to attempt various stunts. They took a half rotted piece of plywood and placed it against a curb to create a ramp of sorts. They would take turns, going one at a time. Each boy would try to outdo the previous boy’s trick.

Jonathan watched them in awe. After half an hour one of the boys looked in his direction, making eye contact. Jonathan’s stomach churned. The boy gave Jonathan the simplest of nods and went on to take his turn on the makeshift ramp. The simple gesture made Jonathan glow; he had been acknowledged—in a positive light.

Jonathan was startled when his mother walked up behind him and put her arm on his shoulder. She looked in the direction he had been staring, and a look of pure disgust spread across her face.

“Look at those little vagrants!” she hissed. “They’ll all end up in jail or homeless one day, mark my words. I hope you don’t ever end up like that, Jonathan. Aim higher.”

Jonathan and his mother loaded up in the car and left the mall. His mother continued her one-sided conversation the whole way home.

“Please don’t do anything to upset your poor mother,” she said as she stopped the car at the entrance of what was arguably the state’s wealthiest gated community. She waved to the security guard as he let her through.

“I don’t know what I would do if you were to become any less that what we both know you’re capable of.”

Jonathan sat patiently in his seat as his mother steered the vehicle into their driveway. He went straight to his room as soon as the car was put in park. He booted up his laptop and opened a sizeable document. He was writing a novella which he’d been working on for the past month.

For over an hour Jonathan pounded away at the keyboard. He typed rapidly, deleted a little, and edited more. The story was coming along nicely, and Jonathan was beginning to feel more and more confident in the idea of pursuing a career in writing. He felt more at home in front of his laptop than he ever did on the soccer field. His mother had of course encouraged him—forced him—to broaden his horizons by signing up for a team sport.

Once he saved all the changes he’d made to his story, Jonathan went downstairs to gather his school things which he’d thrown aside when he came in. His backpack, and notebooks, and a copy of some required reading sat on top of the kitchen table. He grabbed them and started to dart into the living room to do his assigned readings when his mother spotted him.

“Dinner is just about finished, hon,” she said. “I made your favorite. Beef stroganoff.”

Jonathan fixed himself a plate of everything except the beef stroganoff and sat down at the table. Soon the whole family was there, eating the meal his mother had prepared. The entire meal consisted of squabbling between his two younger sisters, his father discussing office politics, and his mother bringing up the soccer game.

Like Jonathan, no one else seemed to care that he’d lost the game. Everyone finished off their plates, and his mother began cleaning the kitchen. This consisted of her picking up the dirty dishes and merely placing them in the sink. The following morning, at seven o’clock, a housekeeper would arrive to put the dishes in the dishwasher.

As his mother walked by the refrigerator she stopped and looked at a colorful grid which outlined the family’s itineraries for the month. She slid her finger down a red row, stopping below the next day’s date.

“You have soccer practice before school tomorrow, hon. You need to get a good night’s sleep.”

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and made his way across the kitchen. His mother paid him no attention as he stopped short and stood motionless. He slowly turned to face her. She left the dishes in the sink and turned to a stack of mail. She sorted out the bills (those went to his dad), and the junk mail (that went in the trash), and an assortment of magazines (those would stay with her). She was leafing through that week’s issue of People when Jonathan spoke.

“Don’t wake me up tomorrow,” he said to her.

She looked at him puzzled.

“I’m not going to practice,” he clarified, stone faced.

“What?”

“I’m quitting the team.”