Pneumadectomy

Rolly stood for a few minutes in the shade of the large oak, just out of sight of the boys gathered on the dry shaven green of the bowls club. All aged around eleven like himself, they were dividing up their meager numbers for a game of soccer, knowing that since it was a Friday afternoon, the pensioned members of the club would not be bothering them. The light was getting a bit dim, but the warmth of the midday sun was still in the air.

Rolly knew Patrick and Liam well enough—they had been friends going back to reception class—and had seen the other six boys here and there; the tallest with the ginger hair he was sure was called Lachlan. And how long had it been since he had had a good game of footie? Not for a good four months, not since the operation, and certainly now with his recuperation period over and his mother finally letting him go out again, albeit with her hands knotting as she allowed it, it was high time to get a game in, just like he used to.

Deciding it was safe enough, Rolly ventured out of the shadows and onto the green.

As soon as they saw him, the boys stopped their pre-game selection chat and turned to look at Rolly in silence.

“Hi guys,” Rolly said meekly, with a weak and perhaps overly pathetic wave of the hand. “How’s it going?”

The silence continued for a moment, until Liam broke it: “Not so bad Rolly, we’re just about to play soccer.”

Rolly and the