When I was 14, I didn't want to do any homework because I'd just discovered something far more interesting.
I was able enough at school, but beyond French and Spanish classes found little to stimulate my interest. Only in my third decade did I realise the beauty and complexity of physics. Now, at 32, it is too late to do anything with that fascination other than read the works of popular scientists, and screw up my face in displeasure when the mathematical side of it kicks in. I perhaps give myself too much credit when I state I am aware of beauty and complexity - for me, they are but shadows, without substance, yet I at least know they are there at all.
The same went for history - a list of which king had superceded which king, and details of the power they wielded over the lives of millions of long-dead citizens. Now, I find history exciting, but it has again taken a shift of the mind to bring about this happy accident. In my early teenage years, I repeat, I was distracted by something far more interesting. I want to write about this briefly, and the circles we make in our own minds; returning to the same centre but the circumference is sometimes greater, sometimes smaller.
I didn't want to do any homework because my best friend and I were riotously entertained by the latest football game to hit the market in 1994 or therebouts - Sensible World of Soccer. When we played against each other, sometimes I'd win, and other times I'd lose. When I was on my own, though, and competing against the computer, I excelled. The limited Amiga couldn't cope with the speed of my hands, and I found glitches in the game which meant winning became easier. I estimate I would win eight or nine times out of ten, with maybe two draws or a draw and the odd loss making up the remainder.
There was one exception to my dominance, though, and I confess I didn't much like it. I swept aside Brazil, Italy, Germany, Argentina and England - I could get off to a bad start and still do enough to at least finish level at the end of the two three-minute halves. One country, though, regularly tripped up my proud Romanian team that I'd always select - I had fallen in love with the brilliant Gheorghe Hagi in his sunflower-yellow shirt, and I wanted to emulate him on my little 12-inch television set.
The fly in the ointment was Croatia. I had heard the name of that country mentioned on the news, and I knew there was a long war going on wherever in Europe Croatia happened to be. Srebrenica? Is that Croatia? If it isn't, it must be adjacent, and what's apparently happening there is beyond my comprehension. Back at my computer, the anger I felt at having been dismantled by the little football players in red-and-white was replaced by a grudging interest: who are you? Why do you flit in and out of my consciousness? Why do I feel a connection with you, even though you should mean nothing to me?
