Short Story: Aaron's Boots

Das Kitty

Wrote a daft story, thought I'd share it. Not really looking for feedback, I know it's silly already .

It's based on this wonderful work of creative writing from yesterday's Sun:
http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/4125154/Aaron-Ramsey-in-goal-link-to-Whitney-death.html

FOOTBALL star Aaron Ramsey was being bizarrely linked to Whitney Houston's death by fans last night after a series of odd coincidences.

Every time the Arsenal midfielder scores, a famous figure dies. Whitney was the fourth in under a year.

Her body was found hours after Ramsey, 21, netted during the Premier League game against Sunderland on Saturday.

The coincidences began last May when Ramsey scored against Man United.

Next day al-Qaeda terror leader Osama Bin Laden was killed.

In October he scored against Spurs, three days before Apple boss Steve Jobs died. Later that month he scored against Marseille in the Champions League.

Next day Libyan tyrant Colonel Gaddafi was shot.

One fan wrote on a forum: "I'm worried things will get out of control when he scores more."

and so...
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Aaron’s Boots

Aaron James Ramsey was a rugby player. He was going to play for Wales; he was going to score the winning try in the Six Nations. That was until they showed up. He was getting his rugby kit out of the clothes dryer when something caught his eye in the corner of the utility room, peeping out from under a discarded towel. He went to the corner, lifted the towel and there they were: football boots. He’d always liked football, but Rugby, now that was a sport. Still, these boots looked nice and they were his size, what was the harm in trying them on?

He loosened the laces and pushed his foot inside and tying them up – they fitted perfectly, bespoke, almost. He stood up and jumped on the tiled floor, the studs making a pleasing sound. “Nice!” he said, leaning over to admire them. He ran out through the patio doors and shouted, “Thanks, Mum!” to his mother who was peeling potatoes at the sink. “Thanks for what?” she wondered aloud.

Aaron James Ramsey was a rugby player, so why was he signing a contract with Cardiff City Football Club? His Mum and Dad were so proud of him: a Caerphilly lad playing for Cardiff – the youngest ever and soon he’d be on the Welsh squad. His schoolmates wondered what the secret of his success was. “Pure skill!” he’d tell them, but he knew it was a lie. The truth was that they were doing it – the boots. They were looking out for him, helping him get himself to the right part of the pitch at the right time and kick the ball so sweetly.

Even as his feet grew, the boots always fitted like gloves. He loved them, they made him play like he never thought possible - “poetry on a pitch,” someone had said once. He cherished them, kept them clean and polished and made sure they were safely in his kit bag after each match or training session. They served him well and he took each opportunity that they afforded him. Then came the day that his agent called and told him that three Premier League clubs wanted to sign him. One word came into his head, as if it was planted there: Arsenal.

May 2011 was when it started. He scored against Man United – sweet as a nut. He was putting his boots back in his kit bag when he heard it, well not heard it so much as felt it: Thank you.

Weird, he thought.

The next day the Sky News rolling banners were full of reports of Osama bin Laden being killed. Lots of his mates were celebrating, but in the back of Aaron’s mind that ‘Thank you’ niggled at him.

Next time it was Steve Jobs who bit the dust, after that Colonel Gaddafi, and then Whitney Houston. Every time he scored, someone famous died, and every time without fail he felt that unsettling ‘Thank you’ press itself into his mind. It gave him the willies.

He took his boots out and held them in his hands and wondered. One more, they said inside his head and he dropped them in fright.

“What?” he said, completely bewildered.

Just one more, they said from the floor. Four plus one is five.

“Five? Five what?”

Five goals, five gifts.

“What gifts?”

Gifts for us. He felt a chuckle and realised what they were saying. Five gifts – five bodies.

“No!” he shouted, “I won’t!”

You will.

Aaron went to training the next morning in different boots. He left the others at home, still mocking him as he pulled the door closed behind him.
“Aaron, what’s wrong with you today? You couldn’t hit a barn door with a banjo,” the coach said. His teammates mocked him relentlessly. He was nothing without the boots and he knew it. He came home and threw his car keys on the hall table.

One more, they said.

“One more,” he agreed.