Part 2

Accordingly, he was teased and tormented throughout his early school years. But with his mother’s love and constant encouragement (“You’re a special little man, Pinky. Don’t you let anyone else tell you otherwise”), he never let it get him down unduly. A happy-go-lucky soul, his bright, effusive manner and willingness to help old people cross the street or with their bulging shopping bags (and here his relatively gargantuan arms were put to good use), he endeared himself to the local community. As things were tight financially at home, Pinky got himself all kinds of odd jobs: cutting grass, delivering local newspapers, and distributing leaflets.

The words of glowing praise from those casual employers (especially during the school holidays and summer months) were a constant source of pride to his mother.

“He’s a credit to you, Ms. Goose – polite, hard-working, and couldn’t have done a better job with that lawn of mine.”

“He’s like a one-boy delivery machine. Usually, it takes my paperboys a good ninety minutes to complete their round. Your boy done his in less than forty-five.”

“I gave Pinky an extra pound for his trouble. And if I ever need a job done again, he’ll be the first youngster I ask.”

* * *

Things changed for Pinky during a physical education class around the time of his fourteenth birthday. Having absolutely no interest in sports, exposing his oversized arms, or competing against fellow pupils who’d mocked him relentlessly for as long as he could remember, he always remained on the sidelines with the other physically challenged or disruptive kids, either with notes from their parents or no kit to their name. On a sunny spring afternoon, one of the school’s finest batsmen on the cricket team crashed willow against leather, sending the ball high over toward the boundary line, an emphatic six worthy of Sir Garfield Sobers, and direct at the unsuspecting fellow pupils not taking part in the match. Acting on instinct, Pinky leapt forward and plucked the cherry clean out of the air, garnering a genuinely awed round of applause from those in closest proximity.

“Why, Goose,” said sports master Mr. Retchkin, “I have a feeling you’d make a damn fine wicket-keeper.”

While feeling slightly ridiculous in cricket whites and with those huge, oversized gloves attached to his huge, oversized arms, Pinky proved that he wasn’t only possessed of a terrific and unlikely wingspan but also incredible hand-eye coordination. From the first few deliveries from a nippy medium-to-fast pace bowler, Pinky plucked the ball out of the air at a rapid rate and returned it to fielder or bowler with machine-like efficiency. And when the batsman at the crease got a heavy outside edge, Pinky’s alacrity in diving to the right for a catch that was as acrobatic as it was expertly executed confirmed Retchkin’s suspicions.

“You’ll be in the first eleven for the opening match of the season,” said the beaming sports master. “Make sure your whites are clean and laundered, and bring fifty pence for cucumber sandwiches and squash at tea.”

In a string of sterling man-of-the-match performances, Pinky didn’t put down a single catch during the entire, if short-lived and severely rain-affected, summer season. If the team had been a bit more useful with the bat, Retchkin had genuine hopes of them progressing far in the county championship.

“If only we had a few more like you, Goose,” he lamented, “we could have made this season one to remember.”

But cricket wasn’t the only sport in which Pinky excelled. He helped the tennis team win the regional championships with a display of heavy serving, using every extra inch of his amazing reach to a devastating effect, broke the school javelin record by an incredible fifteen feet, and even appeared in goal for the local youth team for a few pre-season friendly matches.

Due to his near-legendary sporting prowess, Pinky enjoyed a period of unlikely popularity amongst the other children. Rather than see those great dangly appendages as something between the comical and grotesque, they now saw them as a superpower, not unlike those enjoyed by their favourite comic book heroes.

“Hey, Pinky, come and sit next to us in class, yeah?” said one popular boy and former arch tormentor.

“Hey, Pinky, you fancy a kickabout down the park later?” asked a second.

“You up for a fag and few beers tonight, Pinks?” offered a far more dubious small-town third.