The local vicar was famous when I was a boy; not for the quality of his sermons, alas, but for keeping the numerous soccer balls accidentally kicked into his vicarage garden. The heart-rending question "May we have our ball back, please?" that desperate plea of needy children the world over, was always met by this particular representative of God with a curt refusal. A distressing state of affairs that seemed, at least to my nine-year-old mind, to be not only the actions of an unconscionable killjoy but also demonstrably unChristian.
So when my own soccer ball, a souvenir of the 1974 World Cup, was confiscated in this manner, I duly denounced the vicar in Sunday School by invoking the eighth commandment and the Golden Rule, for which "impertinence" I was sent to sit by myself in the last row of pews, where I secretly read the latest issue of Dr. Strange instead of whatever remedial version of the Gospels I was supposed to be studying. And that was the end of my religious education. But not of my thirst for vengeance.
Many plots were hatched, mostly involving clandestine distribution of dog crap to prominent locations around the vicarage to cause maximum inconvenience. There was even Tom Sawyer-ish talk of the vicar's ears being a target for catapult dispatched projectiles. Of course, none of these anti-social strategies were actually pursued. They remained the adolescent fantasies of cold but ultimately impotent eyes cast upon the vicarage garden, where soccer balls were lost forever, slowly deflating in a locked and bolted shed where the evil vicar imprisoned all symbols of youthful joy.
Several years after these events, I was press-ganged into playing Sir Toby Belch in my High School's production of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. I'm a terrible actor and theatrical performance is never an enjoyable experience for me, especially when I'm forced to strap a pillow across my stomach to fabricate a drunkard's paunch. So I was an especially moody Sir Toby Belch, mumbling my lines and shuffling about the stage. Except for the hallowed evening I was informed the local vicar would be in attendance. And my ancient nemesis would be sitting in the front row, no less.
I'm not sure if the dozing audience noticed when, striding determinedly into the spotlight, I declaimed as loudly as possible: "Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale and soccer balls?" But I like to think the vicar heard me and wriggled guiltily in his seat. Sure, my short Shakespearian paraphrase was no dog crap pellet in the back of the episcopal head, but for me it was closure. After all, some are born petty, some achieve pettiness, and I had had pettiness thrust upon me.
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