The Last Holiday Read Online Free

even knew about his “football.” Soccer.
    Gil would come home after soccer games and rub his legs down with alcohol. Only then would the cuts and scratches and bruises receive the notice they deserved. During games he was oblivious to
discomfort; my mother would be appalled by his injuries. Opponents tried to deliberately injure him, with high tackles and tackles when he didn’t even have the ball. It was inevitable when
his team played groups from the surrounding areas. His skills would offend the opposition, often leaving them feeling foolish and flailing, victims of Gil’s fancy footwork. There were
scoundrels in places like Skokie, a suburb of Chicago then inhabited primarily by Europeans, who treated soccer like an ethnic heirloom. My mother talked about incidents when opposing players had
felt forced to foul, going for his legs instead of the ball, not trying to tackle him but to injure; these were red flags to his temper. Bad move. Gil would grab them and either overpower them with
the strength that could be generated by his powerful legs, or while grappling face-to-face he would suddenly jerk his opponent toward him, forcing their face into his forehead. Once he had been so
upset with the blind-eye officials who ignored intentional attempts to injure him that he suddenly turned on the ball and kicked it over a wire fence into Lake Michigan, ending the game.
    Bobbie was as worried about fights as she was worried about him getting hurt in games. And those were not related to the same set of circumstances. His reputation, or so the legend goes, was
that he handled both of those very separate skills with equal dexterity and with equal enthusiasm. So she would go see him play, hoping that would be all.
    My mother told me there was a certain grace and ferocity whether he was kicking goals or kicking ass. She didn’t come up with that opinion just because she was married to him. Though she
might have been biased, her belief in his talent was confirmed when the Scottish national team visited Chicago for a “friendly” match, an exhibition game, and were impressed. In fact,
after the game members of the coaching staff spoke to him and made an informal offer for him to come to Scotland to play. He was, after all, already a citizen of the commonwealth.
    My mother and father separated when I was one and a half years old, when Celtic, in Glasgow, Scotland, offered him a formal contract. My father decided to take an opportunity to do what he
always wanted to do: play football fulltime, at the highest level, against the best players. It was, for him, the chance of a lifetime, the chance to play for one of the most famous teams in the
British Isles. It was an opportunity to see who he was and what he was, to avoid sliding through fits of old age and animosity and spasms of “I coulda been a contender” that no one
believed. That sort of thing can even make you doubt yourself, doubt what you know, doubt what you would have sworn if anyone was willing to listen. To play with Celtic was also a Jackie
Robinson–like invitation for him. It was something that had been beyond the reach and outside the dreams of Blacks.

 
4
    According to my grandmother, Lily Scott, I arrived at the house on South Cumberland Street in Jackson, Tennessee, in December of 1950, after taking the train south with her. My
grandmother had come to Chicago to collect me from my mother after they agreed I would be better off in Tennessee while everything in my mother’s life was restructured. Like where she lived,
how she lived, and, to be blunt, who she didn’t live with. She and my father had agreed to disagree and were to make this difference of opinion as official as their previous agreement. I was
not needed as either a referee or witness to this action, and was sent on the Seminole with my mother’s mother. According to the plan, I would be with her for six months. I was not
consulted.
    My stay stretched beyond those six months