The Boy With The Ball

There was once a boy named Donald who owned the finest football in the neighbourhood.

It wasn't just any football. It gleamed in the sunshine, its white panels almost too bright to look at, and the black pentagons were still crisp and clean. It smelled of new leather, bounced perfectly, and made a satisfying thump every time it met a foot.

Every afternoon, when school was over and homework had been forgotten for just a little while, Donald would walk proudly to the green at the end of the street with the ball tucked tightly under his arm.

The other boys would spot him from their gardens or bedroom windows.

"Donald's got the ball!"

Within minutes they would come running.

John Doe arrived first, as he usually did. Then Ben Dover raced over still wearing his school jumper. Soon there were eight or nine boys standing together, laughing, joking and eager to play.

Yet, without Donald's ball there could be no match.

And Donald knew it.

"Right," he said, placing the ball carefully on the grass. "I'll choose the teams."

No one argued. After all, it was his ball.

The game began. For a while there were tackles, great saves, spectacular misses and plenty of laughter.

Then John Doe scored.

"That doesn't count," Donald declared.

"What do you mean?" asked John Doe.

"The goal was too close."

"It was the same goal we've been using all afternoon."

"Well... I've changed the rule."

The others looked at each other.

It seemed a little unfair. Still, it was only one goal. They shrugged and carried on.

A few minutes later Ben tackled Donald cleanly and won the ball.

"Foul!" Donald shouted.

"I didn't touch you."

"I've decided sliding tackles aren't allowed."

"You didn't tell us."

"I don't have to."

Again, everyone exchanged puzzled looks. But they wanted to keep playing. So they accepted the new rule.

As the weeks went by, the rule changes became more frequent. Whenever Donald's team was losing, the goals became smaller. Whenever he missed a shot, he claimed the goalkeeper had moved too early. If someone else dribbled past him, they were suddenly guilty of using too many touches.

Corners disappeared. Throw-ins became free kicks. Offside existed one day and vanished the next. Sometimes Donald simply announced that the last five minutes didn't count because he'd been distracted.

The boys started to groan.

"Not another rule," muttered Jacob.

"You can't just keep changing everything," said Ben.

"It's my ball," Donald replied.

"So?"

"So....I make the rules."

No one answered.

Because, in a way, he was right. It was his ball. Without it, there was no game.

Or so everyone believed.

One Saturday afternoon the boys gathered as usual. Donald bounced the ball twice. "New rule," he announced before anyone had even kicked it.

"What now?" sighed John.

"If I score, it's worth three goals."

The boys laughed, thinking he was joking. He wasn't.

"Seriously?"

"My ball."

Ben folded his arms. "And if one of us scores?"

"One goal."

"That's ridiculous."

"It's fair."

"No, it isn't."

"It is because I said so."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the green. For the first time, no one ran to take their positions. No one argued. No one smiled. Finally John spoke.

"I don't think this is fun anymore."

Donald frowned.

"It's football."

"No," John replied quietly. "It's whatever you decide it is."

The words hung in the air.

Donald looked around expecting someone to disagree.

But nobody did.

Ben nudged a pebble with his trainer. Jacob stared across the field. Even the younger boys, who usually said nothing, looked disappointed.

Donald shrugged.

"If you don't like it...", he picked up the ball, "...you don't have to play."

Another silence followed. Then John nodded. "All right." He turned and began walking home. Ben followed. So did Jacob. One by one they all left.

Within a minute the green was empty except for Donald. He stood alone holding the perfect football. He couldn't quite believe it.

"They'll be back tomorrow," he muttered to himself.

But they weren't. The next day Donald arrived early. He waited. He bounced the ball. He practised kicking it against a tree. No one came.

The following afternoon was the same. Then the day after that. The green, once filled with shouting and laughter, seemed strangely quiet.

Even the birds sounded louder than before.

Donald tried playing by himself. He dribbled around imaginary defenders. He pretended to score dramatic winners. He even celebrated.

But, in reality, there was nobody cheering.

Nobody trying to stop him. But, nobody to pass to either. There was nobody to beat - except himself. A football, he discovered, wasn't nearly as exciting when there was no one else to share it with.

One evening he spotted the other boys walking towards an empty patch of grass behind the old community hall. Curious, he followed at a distance. They weren't carrying a football.

"What are they doing?" he wondered.

Then he saw. They had made one. It wasn't beautiful. It certainly wasn't perfect. They had wrapped old rags together, tied them tightly with string, and covered the outside with layers of tape. It bounced awkwardly. Sometimes it rolled in strange directions. Occasionally it burst apart and someone had to tape it together again.

Yet the boys laughed more than Donald had heard in weeks. There were no arguments. When someone fell over, everyone stopped to help. When a goal was scored, it counted. When a rule needed changing, they all talked about it together.

Sometimes they voted. Sometimes they compromised. Sometimes they simply shrugged and carried on. The ball wasn't the reason they were smiling.

Each other was.

Donald watched from behind a hedge. For the first time, he realised something that had never occurred to him. The ball had never been the important part.

Trust and friendship was.

The next afternoon he returned to the green. His shiny football looked as perfect as ever. But somehow it seemed much smaller. He sat with it beside him for a long time. Eventually he picked it up and walked towards the community hall.

The boys noticed him immediately. The game slowed. Some looked uncertain. John stepped forward.

"What do you want?"

Donald swallowed.

"I came to say... I was wrong."

Nobody spoke.

"I kept changing everything because I liked being in charge."

Still no one answered.

"I thought owning the ball meant I owned the game."

He looked down at his trainers.

"I didn't."

The silence stretched. Finally Donald held out the football. "You can use this." Ben looked surprised. "Really?"

Donald nodded. "But..." he hesitated "...only if we all decide the rules together."

John studied his face. "You mean that?"

"I do."

Jacob grinned. "Well, first rule..."

Donald smiled nervously. "What?"

"If the ball lands in Mrs Wilson's roses..."

"...whoever kicked it has to fetch it," Ben finished.

Everyone laughed. Even Donald.

The game began again. This time the teams were chosen fairly. The rules were agreed before kick-off. Whenever someone had an idea, everyone listened.

Sometimes Donald's team won. Sometimes it lost. Sometimes he argued. So did everyone else. But disagreements were settled together instead of being announced by one person.

Slowly the laughter returned. Not because the football was any shinier. Not because anyone scored more goals. But because every player felt that the game belonged to all of them.

Years later, long after they had outgrown that little green and moved on to different schools, different jobs and different lives, the boys rarely remembered who had scored the most goals. They couldn't remember who had won on warm Tuesdays or rainy Saturdays.

But they did remember the summer when the games stopped. And they remembered why. They remembered that people will happily follow someone who shares. They will forgive mistakes. They will accept losing. They will even play in the rain with a ball made from old clothes if everyone is treated fairly.

What they will not do forever is stay in a game where one person changes the rules simply because they can.

Donald never forgot that lesson. The old football eventually wore out. Its white leather became grey. The stitching frayed. The air slowly leaked away until it could no longer bounce.

But the friendships that returned after he learned to share lasted much longer than any football ever could.

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