The day started calm and very cool, but brilliantly sunny. Mary Jackson packed some luncheon for her son Tommy and checked the weather report again. Cold with a slight possibility of snow.
She threw on her warmest half-length fur coat over a fleecy T-shirt and plaid skirt, thought about wearing a bra and decided against it. She checked herself in the mirror, and liked what she saw. Mrs Jackson was not a vain woman at all, but appreciated in a kind of dispassionate way her neatly packaged body, her flat stomach and full breasts straining at the T-shirt. At 5'6" she often wished to be taller and leggy like her sister, but it wasn't something she dwelt on. She gave her soft auburn hair a flick and wondered if the red lipstick wasn't just a little too much. It wasn't.
She smiled and hoped there would be some muscular sporty types at the game she could flirt with. She both enjoyed and hated flaunting herself with strangers. Enjoyed the sexual rush she felt when they caressed her breasts with their eyes, and the stammering efforts to impress, but hated the tension she caused for herself. She could never be unfaithful to Gregory, who had given her two lovely children and provided her with a Cherokee runabout and a huge rambling house which she loved. If only he was home more often, instead of wandering around the country on obscure and complicated business ventures.
"Come on Mom! We'll be late"
Tommy's yell woke her from her reverie, she grabbed the keys from the dresser and trotted out to the car.
"Here I am darling. We have plenty of time." She smiled her dazzling best which as always made Tommy melt.
Tommy was a stunningly handsome young man. He was, like his father, fair-haired with bright, sparkling blue eyes. And like his father he was going to be tall and muscular. Already he turned the heads of girls and women alike.
"Tommy, you're going to freeze! Where's your coat and beanie for heaven's sake?"
Tommy was already sitting in the front seat, rubbing his hands and legs vigorously. The air in the car was cold enough to numb his skin. He had stripped down to shorts and his light soccer shirt with "Eagles" neatly written across the front, and No.10 in large white print on his back. Little protection against the penetrating chill.
Mary looked at the sky. The sun had disappeared behind low heavy cloud, and a stiff breeze was swirling around the trees, paper scuttled along the empty streets.
"I'll be fine. As soon as I get there I'll be on the ground running Mom," explained Tommy. "Just turn on the heater."
"Oh Tommy you know the damned thing has been broken for a week, it's freezing in here. Run inside and get some clothes."
"Mom! Go, go, go! We're late," he said urgently, making a whip-cracking sound with his tongue, "Giddyup, go, go!"
Mary smiled, shook her head, started the engine reluctantly and pulled out onto the street for a raw day of watching the indomitable Eagles thrash the speedy but fragile Panthers.
"This is ridiculous," bellowed old Mr Cheshire, "call the bloody game off!"
A number of parents rumbled their agreement and glared at the dispirited officials. What had started as a bright cold day had turned foul. A strong north wind had come groaning over the mountains causing the temperature to plummet to near freezing and swamping the players and the spectators alike with large, wet snow flakes. The boys played on manfully and refused to leave the icy field. With florid language and exaggerated gestures they would finish the game, they said. But the mothers could only see their pain and the child-like pleading in their eyes. Fathers looked sombre, torn between embarrassing their sons and protecting them from the fierce wind and the soaking snow.
Mr Cheshire, a respected bank manager not given to emotional outbursts flourished his umbrella threateningly and boomed, "You'll kill those lads, you fools! Bring them in now! It's only a game, damn you!"
Mary could barely see Tommy in the gloom and the flurries of snow. The boys were playing in slow-motion. Some had stopped almost in mid-stride, hugging themselves and shivering uncontrollably. She had a feeling of dread. Her own warm shirt and fur coat was useless keeping out the bone-numbing cold, what on earth could the boys be feeling? Tears of frustration trickled down her cheek and froze on her white skin.
Suddenly a woman screamed. "Jimmy! My Jimmy!" On the field one of the smaller boys had collapsed to his knees, head bowed as if in prayer. He was quite still. At once the men ran onto the ground towards him. It was a signal for the other parents. Within seconds, there were barely distinguishable shapes hurling themselves desperately onto the arena searching for their children. With them was Mary Jackson, her coat flapping behind her, eyes wild with fear. Everywhere fathers and mothers were wrapping their lads in coats and sweaters and towels.
Tommy was standing alone and calm near the far end goal post. He was quite still. "Tommy! Oh Tommy darling", cried Mrs Jackson, heaving off her coat and throwing it around his shoulders.
"Mom? Mom, what're you...", Tommy's voice trailed away. His speech was slurred. His face was ashen white, and he had a slight frown. The wind cut into Mary's bare flesh. Tommy's hair was sodden, his lips were blue-gray. Suddenly the strapping young man was a little boy again. "I think I'd like to go home now Mommy," he said weakly.
