(I would like to put in a disclaimer here, to explain that this is inspired by the Women of Letter’s book that I mentioned on of my earlier blog’s. I am writing a letter addressed to David Beckham, in reference to my first pin up. Enjoy!)
Dear Mr. Beckham.
Dear David Beckham.
My sister was always the soccer player. She just was. My parents would load us up in the Hilux on a Saturday morning, my sister; then a sprightly six year old with bangs that would be at the envy of Zooey Deschanel, myself; with an already rampant case of middle child syndrome at 4 and my brother who still clung to my mother typical of the 1 year old that he was, and take us all to watch her play soccer. I adored my sister, I adored her and emulated her. All I wanted to do was play like her; with the same nonchalance, the same self-confidence and ease. Even at the age of six my sister played as though she could think of a hundred better places she would rather be. How could she treat soccer like that? How could she treat her natural talent that I so desperately craved to have, with such indifference.
As the years went on, we would kick the ball around the yard for a little while but she would lose interest quickly. Here I was, busting my butt to dribble the ball to get around her and score and she would stick her foot out with ease and take it from me. How did she do that? How could she make it look so effortless, and not want to keep playing! But she didn’t, she would just walk off and do something else, leaving me in her dust, literally and metaphorically. It is then that I started to play on my own, and pretend that I was you, David. I would spend hours out in the paddock, kicking it as far as I could, and chase it down and do it over and over again. I would draw an X on our cement water tank and take the ball back a few steps and try and hit the mark, time and time again. I would increase the angle, bit by bit, trying to ‘bend it like Beckham’ as the term was coined. I would spend hours, every day, doing this over and over. I hung posters of you on the wall, once trying to hang one of the roof of the bedroom so you could be the last thing I saw before sleep and promote dreams of us playing side by side, and you clapping me on the back after I score for England. I was a dreamer, you see! With that unrealistic ability to believe all your dreams could come true, that slowly but surely get quashed by impending adulthood.
As I got older, and those beautifully horrific hormones began to race through my veins, I saw you in a different light, David. I stopped noticing the way you scored penalty goals from outside the box and began to notice the way you tucked your slightly long blonde hair behind your ears before stepping away from the ball. I noticed the way your muscles moved as you ran, and the way your jaw line tensed when you concentrated. I happened to mention these keen observations to a girl friend of mine at school. We were sitting in grade 9 ICT class. I can’t for the life of me remember what we actually learnt in that class, or what ICT actually stands for. What I can tell you David, is that we had access to computers and incomprehensibly slow internet. Anyone who went to school in the times before wifi, ADSL2, C3PO or whatever we are up to now, knows that getting on the internet was a time consuming endeavour. As my friend opens up the web browser, she turned the screen slightly, away from the piercing gaze of my teacher. My heart began to race, because she had this smirk on her face that could only mean that she was about to do something we shouldn’t be doing. As a vapid teacher’s pet, I began to silently protest to my friend, giving her warning stares that I thought could melt faces, but apparently was not an effective deterrent in the slightest. She excitedly looked to me and whispered “you’ll want to see this” and turned to the laptop and typed into the search bar ‘David Beckham naked”.
My eyes went wide as I stared transfixed as the little hour glass as the internet began to think. Do you remember that grey hour glass David? It taunted me that day, taking a lifetime to change into the arrow, my heart rate increasing with every passing second. All of a sudden the picture started to appear, my friend excitedly tapping my leg. But unlike pictures today, that flash up instantaneous with the click of the mouse, your year 2000 and something picture came up line by line. Literally line by line, starting from your head, and making its way down your bare, muscular chest, your arms outstretched. And not quickly, no I had now been anxiously waiting for 15 minutes and it had not yet loaded past your belly button, as my eyes dashed from my teacher, to the work I should have finished already, to my friend who had lost interest already and back to you again. But I had not lost interest David. I had long since said goodbye to the world before knowing this picture existed, to a world where it was all I thought about. As the loading had just reached where I am sure your Calvin Klein underwear would sit, to my absolute horror, the end of school bell began to chime, and the bustle of my fellow classmates ensued. My friend swiftly got up from her seat, seemingly forgotten about the bombshell she had left in front of us. As the teacher began to walk around turning off all the computers, I desperately tried to exit out of you as I felt her piercing gaze from across the room. To my frantic relief, you suddenly flashed off my screen, and I scurried out of there, wiping this memory from my mind for years to come.
It is not until recently, when this memory decided to grace my subconscious, that I googled this picture again David. But now instead of systemic hormonal curiosity, I am filled with uncontrollable laughter. At the memory, and the hilarious Jesus-like pose you were in. What were you thinking, David.
Forever yours (but not in that way anymore),
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