I was doing great. My carpenter was working his mustache sweaty and after paying him fifty cents more, like the twins, he better be. The shed was coming around and while he did that for the past four days I had been slaving away to get the funds together. Funds to pay for the growing heap of things I had not thought about at first. It had been a long day of chopping and sawing trees into planks. Now I was about to have a silent cigarette and think about food. Order at that Pizza place? Going for something fancy at the fast food place around the corner? Deepfreeze pizza salami? People seemed to take this as an oppurtunity to call me lately. Hearing the phone going off in the hallwat I sighed. I got the helmet off of my head and wobbled my way towards it. But when I saw who was making my phone play 'We are the champions' I almost dropped it.

"The fuck? Where are my glasses, I must be seeing things? Did I get a virus from that digitizer? Is this it? No more steak?" I mumbled, unsure if I should pick up, or what to say if I did.

My son calling me out of the blue was even less likely than Norma offering to adopt a thirteen-year-old. At first, I thought it was another practical joke from little Rey. Like the time he invited me to his birthday and his mother got me arrested. Or that time he made sure Norma could adopt a thirteen-year-old. That last one wasn’t too funny in hindsight.

So when I picked up, and it was my only son on the other end of the line, it baffled me. He uttered a weak “Hey dad”. I tried not shit my pants out of pure bafflement.

George’s last call was to tell me he would go digital. He wished to ask for my blessing, but I guess hanging up on him the moment he had uttered the words made that impossible. I later heard from Norma that he had even considered not going digital. Beverley intercepted this plan and crushed it under her iron heels. Like his balls.

Looking back, I was glad she did. The plan, not the balls. Even if I would never, ever, ever,  tell a living soul. I would rather die than give the bird brain any acknowledgment for a good deed. If George had not gone digital, his career would have ended and he would not been able to make this much money. This way was better for little Rey.

When I had found my voice again I asked him very politely what he wanted “What do you want, self-esteem? Your balls back? I don’t have them. Try your wives purse.” All right, so not polite polite.

“Glad to hear you are all right, dad. It sounds like you have changed little through the years.” George said, a tinge of amusement in his voice. Strange. Shouldn’t he be shriveling back into his shell by now.. hanging up, dejected and defeated? What was happening in the world! First I got digitized, now George grew a backbone? What was next? Memeoligist becoming an actual profession? Donald Trump going for his fifth term? Was this the end?

I said nothing, I had said everything I wanted to say to this man a long time ago when I still tried. Passing that stage, I was not yet apathetic to all that happened with him but close. I would always love him and deep down I still cared. But talking to a wall that punched you in the gut on regular intervals had its limits.

After a while, the silence had gotten from awkward to rather strange. So I was about to hang up when he spoke again.

“I’m sorry for letting Beverley arrest you like that and not saying anything about it. I.. I have been thinking I have not always been honest with myself. Letting others decide for me what to do and what not to do... Including you and mom, but Beverley for the most part. Ever since Rey almost...“ He whispered at the end and didn’t finish his sentence, but didn’t need to.

I was quite shocked. I had dreamed of this moment happening. Was I over the moon that Beverley seemed to be losing her steel-clawed grip on him and his party hat? Of course. Did I expect the inclusion in this.. sure, but it was still somewhat surprising. Did I expect him to include his mother in this, may she rest in silence, most definite.

Shannah had been as overbearing as I had been stubborn. Norma dealt with it by screwing the whole neighborhood. Pissing off her mother to such a degree they didn’t speak anymore. Which, I have to admit, is a feat worth a medal. George had dealt with it by obeying everything that came out of his mother's mouth like a sad little puppy. It made him the favorite, but also a lap dog.

His one outlet had been our shared passion. I was there to guide all that raw and buried anger towards something productive. Keeping his goal clean. I didn’t want to pet my shoulder too much, but the boy had everything to become the main act nutcase in a school shooting. Smart, but bullied to the extreme and no way to let any of his frustrations out at home. Try as we might, we were far from perfect as parents. A reason I never tried to insert myself into their lives anymore...

My mind was getting off topic, and I was noticing my own imperfections. So I was glad George continued even though I didn’t respond to his massive psychological breakthrough. “So how is T.E.A.M.? Fun right?” Well, guess that one outburst of emotions should be enough for a Thursday afternoon.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

I smiled, shaking off the past as I replied without thinking “It is amazing, so fucking real. Last week I rammed a nail through my hand by accident and almost fainted. Shit is ridiculous.”

Happiness made me weak.

I could hear George on the other side of the phone oozing smugness. “I’m glad to hear that, even though I now owe Norma a very expensive massage chair. She was the only one who thought you would utter those words in your lifetime.”

“Yeah well, I guess I have been a bit of a fool to think digitization was the worst thing to happen to humanity since Crocs. But if you tell Beverley I said any of this, I will disown you where you stand.” I grumbled through the smartphone, my mind blinking between shame and relief. I hadn’t conversed with George in five years. Five years. It was so fucking long. I almost wished I could go back and tell myself to not be a dick.

It was quiet again, both of us not knowing what more to say. I tried the usual topic “How are you playing?” He played like a dumpster fire, even I knew that. Being a digitize dinosaur that was saying a lot. But I liked to hear it from him even if it was to save the conversation.

“Not well, I am hanging on by a thread. Which is about to break, to be honest. Some guy, eighteen years old, is itching to replace me. I’m one mistake away from getting benched. I'm not sure if I know how to get out of the situation…” he ended the sentence dejected.

It was like I thought then. Well not only me, the entire world knew George Wyatt would not make the end of the season if he kept on going like this. But this was my son. He punches me in the emotional crownjewels sometimes but I loved him nonetheless. So I had to at least try to help him.

“Listen, son, here is what I want you to do. First, you get that giant head out of your wife’s ass. I’m not suggesting you divorce that piece of mediocre beef stew. But man up. Don’t let her walk all over you like poo stained carpet. Then I want you to go to one of those ‘Make me pretty again’ places and get the good treatment. Get a shred of self-confidence back.”

Cosmetic surgery had made some massive strides. If you had the money, you could die looking eighteen at one hundred and twenty. If you had the money that is. Very expensive shit.  

“Then, and I’m only suggesting this because you can’t break the guys' ankles in the digital world.”  I’m not sure how it worked but computer generated injuries seemed weird. I took a deep breath and continued. “You go out there and get on the goal like nothing has ever happened. You are playing great. Anyone telling you anything else needs to shut up and fuck off or we send your sister to bash their skull in. Capiche?”

“HA” it was the only sound George made, but I could hear the boulder fall off his shoulders.

I had given a variant of this speech a dozen times when we were still in the real. George needed confidence. If not he was a pear wearing gloves on goal. Sweet, soft, and easy to bruise. What you needed was George the serial killer. That guy made up on all his mediocrity by pure instinctive surviving skills. He was a nasty character on the field and sometimes had genius saves. He would walk through a wall like that, instead of the turning into the pear juice like he was now.

A moment passed before then George said, “Thanks dad, I needed that.”

“No problem, George,” I said, with a genuine father tone I hadn’t used in a decade.

“Hey dad, get to league F soon okay? We can play together then like we used too.” George sounded both hopeful and doubtful.

“Sure thing. What do I need to do to get there? I don’t think I’m even in a league at the moment.” I said to my son whose dreams would work me to death. Again.

“Ow, nothing much. F league is the beginning. Kind of. You need about five thousand fans, a smallish stadium, and training facilities. Those are the bare minimum.” George said as I grimaced. He didn’t see it, but I was screaming soundless curses through the smartphone. Thanking the gods I didn’t own a fancy one where a holo-call was the standard.

Pausing my outburst I said “Sure thing, will get right on it.” and like that, we hung up. George happy I saved his season. Me happy I got to shout at my son again on a patch of grass in the distant future. Just had to make a smallish stadium and get five fucking thousand fans, however the fuck you got those. No biggy.