Was Trevor’s life exciting during those early years of growing up? I don’t remember meeting his family. Would you like to imagine what they were like? Perhaps kind, loving, tactile folk with refined sensitivities? You don’t suppose they beat the shit out of him, do you?
I last met Trevor on Walton High Street when we were both twenty. I was home from college and he was unemployed. All the cockiness had dissipated. He seemed sullen brooding and sad and eager to talk. He seemed pleased to see me and wanted to tell me what he’d been up to.
He told me that a while back he’d emigrated to New Zealand because he couldn’t get a job over here in the UK and he’d heard that there was plenty of work out there. He came back a few months later. He hadn’t liked it. He told me that he’d got into fight after fight and they kept locking him up. According to him, New Zealanders were all a bunch of wankers. They didn’t like the British. I rather suspected that it was more that they didn’t like arrogant and aggressive people.
Terry laughed and told me that he’d come home to where it was civilised. He seemed a lot more chastened at twenty compared to the cocky youth of fifteen that I remembered. Life did not seem to be progressing the way he had imagined it would. It was leaving him morose. His self-esteem had evaporated. He was no longer the big guy. Perhaps it was because he no longer had an audience, or perhaps that, compared to fully-grown adults, he was no longer so awfully big and fearsomely tough? He could no longer intimidate and beat the shit out of anyone who crossed him.
You don’t suppose that Trevor ever battered his kids do you? You don’t suppose that there could be a self-perpetuating cycle of violence? You don’t suppose that all those fights Trevor regularly instigated were the result of people picking on him and giving him funny looks do you? Because he was always the innocent party you know. He never started anything, honest.
Am I stereotyping or reporting? Probably a bit of both.
You don’t suppose that life trained Trevor to be violent and rewarded him with status and attention when he was, do you? Then callously took it all away.
I don’t suppose there’s any too much shit left in Trevor these days. There did not seem to be that last time I met him. He seemed like a beaten man, a balloon with a hole in it.
Life’s a game and it appeared to me that Trevor was one of life’s losers. But was it his fault?
My dad taught me to play chess. He always beat me but I kept trying until one day I beat him. From there on we were fairly evenly matched.
Chess gets the brain cells firing. Chess is a game of tactics and stylised war. It is absorbing and complex. If played properly, with the full resources of the intellect and concentration, it is the game of games
But there again, I don’t want to exaggerate its importance too much. It is no substitute for life.