The Trouble with Terry

I hadn’t seen Terry for over a year when we spoke last week, and he’d suggested a night out at his darts club. Yeah, sure, I’d said. I can drive unless your car’s back on the road. Cheers, I’d appreciate it, he’d said. My motor's out for the count and my trotters are playing up. No problem, I’d said, confirming the arrangement. How does Tuesday sound? Fine by me, he said. See you at eight.

#

It was a shock to see Terry dragging his feet down the footpath and struggling to maintain his balance with a walking frame. With his silver hair and beard, he looked like a dishevelled Santa recovering from a reindeer stampede on Christmas Eve.

I knew about his M.S., of course, but didn’t realise how fast it’d progressed. If ever I broached the topic, he’d scowl at me and change the subject. We were in the same class at high school, but you’d never have guessed it. He looked like he’d retired two decades ago.

My damn hooves are messing about tonight, he said, grimacing as he inched his way over the gritty paving slabs. 

I winced as he stumbled over each granular obstruction.

No hurry, Twinkle Toes, I said, opening the garden gate. We’ve got all night.

It’s just as well under the circumstances, he said, avoiding eye contact.

Lean on me, I said, bracing myself as he lurched towards the open car door. Terry clutched my forearm, twisted his spine, and collapsed backwards onto the passenger seat, hauling his other leg into the footwell. 

I’m glad you’re the designated driver, he said, chuckling.

Me too, Terry, I said, shaking my head. I’m still recovering from last time.

I warned you my brakes were spongy before we set off, mate.

They weren’t spongy, I said, frowning. They were A.W.O.L.

At least my motor wasn’t a complete write off, he said, smirking.

True, I said. But now it’s held together with five miles of duct tape.

#

What defined our time at school was being good or bad at darts. I was always awful at darts, but possessed a head for numbers, whereas Terry had the natural skill and accuracy required for the sport. He had to work on the mathematics. However, when we left school, he was a whizz with the important numbers. His poor exam results didn’t bother him because he could calculate dartboard scores like nobody else. 

Everyone said, if you look hard enough, you can see smoke coming out of his ears.

He was a human number cruncher, calculating all the game scores in double quick time from five-hundred-and-one through to zero.

#

Like everything that’s important in life, love and marriage, one has to work at it to achieve success. I tried to follow Terry’s advice about how to grip the dart, convinced that I needed a strategy for improvement. He recommended either using the four or three points of contact method. It was all in the wrist action, apparently.

You need to practise your snap, Terry said, demonstrating his technique.

But that’s just flicking your wrist, I said, frowning.

No, not really, he said, biting his lip and tutting. Just think more snap and less flick.

I persevered with both styles and did my best. However, it wasn’t in me, or didn’t manifest itself in any recognisable form. I understood the theory, but it didn’t have any effect on my ability.

#

I pursued a career in accounts, and Terry followed his shooting star. He had a chequered career in various industries. Terry signed up for ten years in the Army’s Logistic Corps, where he got his HGV licence, followed by fourteen years driving heavy goods and artics, and then ten years as a doorman on the club circuit. He was fine with those professions until his G.P. spotted the early signs of M.S.; numbness, tingling fingers, and lack of coordination. The doctor suggested a desk job, which Terry agreed to, and he gained employment as a night security officer in charge of fifty CCTV cameras at the local nuclear processing facility. It didn’t take him long to install a dartboard behind his office door. He’d thrown “arrers” throughout his working life; wherever there was a target. It was an ideal set-up; undemanding night work, a private dartboard, and hours of undisturbed practice time.

#

Last time we shared the same vehicle, it was a white-knuckle ride from start to finish. It was clear Terry wasn’t in control, or at least his feet weren’t responding; we were slow to pick up speed after every stop and pulled up short every time he braked. We had three near misses and a couple of scrapes on the way. However, we got there in time for Terry’s big tie against the reigning champion.

When we arrived, I headed for the bar to steady my nerves, and Terry sauntered into the club as if nothing had happened. He focused on the matter in hand like an apex predator out for the kill. This was a final playoff fixture against Billy “The Bruiser” Balshaw. 

There was no love lost between the pair. Billy was a gigantic presence on the darts circuit, weighing in at two-hundred-and-sixty-six pounds. Terry knew The Bruiser from previous bouts and had parried his verbal intimidation and physical threats. Terry was self-assured and knew he was up to the task. Billy had his troop of supporters, but so did Terry. If there was any hint of violence, it was going to happen between the two groups following the event and out of earshot of the club.

The M.C. called the two competitors to attention and introduced them.

Ladies and Gents, please give a big welcome to Billy “The Bruiser” Balshaw and our own shining star, Terry “Twinkle Toes” Tattersall.

The two opponents lumbered forward and gripped hands in a silent battle of minds and growled threats like two manacled mastiffs prior to mortal combat. Winner takes all, with the honour of their respective clubs at stake. 

Balshaw won a couple of easy legs while Terry warmed up, however once he got into his stride, sparks flew and the tension was unbearable. Terry was on form and despite a war of hissed threats and half-heard utterances, he trounced Balshaw and achieved a personal best; a nine-dart finish in the last leg; seven treble twenties, then a treble nineteen, and last, a double twelve to finish. A rare achievement; seldom witnessed and appreciated by friend and foe alike. The ten-minute-long standing ovation was thoroughly deserved.

#

The following week, he took out his car’s windscreen on the back of a lorry with a protruding rear load. 

It could’ve happened to anybody, he’d said to the attending officer.

Damn sun was in my eyes, he’d said to the nurse and paramedics. 

The car wasn’t a complete written off, however; it was a convenient excuse to accept a lift to work from security colleagues at the plant. Terry must have realised he wouldn’t get any better because he was in no hurry to get his car back and avoided calls from the garage concerning the repair bill.

#

Soon after the tingling got worse and Terry requested a followup appointment with his G.P. The doctor performed tests on Terry and concluded that the M.S. was advancing and he had dartitis. 

What the hell is dartitis?

It’s an unexplained loss of motor control in the hand, wrist, or arm.

You’re kidding me, right?

It s like “the yips”, said the doctor. A nervous twitch that destroys concentration and spoils performance, resulting in the inability to release the dart during a throw. Terry had never considered early retirement, but now his health was dictating his future. He had a life-changing choice to make, and so did his employers. 

#

Losing touch with work colleagues and old friends is always difficult and upsetting, but when it’s because one’s fingers can’t press the buttons on the iPhone, and you can’t get out to socialise like you used to do, then it hurts. It hurts like hell, in fact. Terry never admitted he couldn’t work his fingers anymore and found it difficult to use his phone. Later, he admitted he was in denial about his condition. It had started with his feet and progressed to his fingertips. His once firm grip had become limp and pliable; his fingers were lifeless appendages that disobeyed his commands or were stubborn and recalcitrant. The bad days were horrendous and the good days were a mere plateau of respite; no sign of improvement, just not as bad as before.

#

Our Tuesday night out wasn’t anything special. I meant it to be a couple of drinks and a natter at the Ex-Serviceman’s Club. I parked close to the entrance and assisted Terry up the ramp with his walking frame. When we stepped inside the barroom, we met a wall of hushed whispers. One by one, the clients in the room took to their feet and clapped. The applause built to a thunderous roar and continued as we proceeded into the throng. A jostling clientele offering heartfelt welcomes and shouts soon surrounded us. 

You’re a bloody legend! Said an old fellow and his son, who hugged him and asked for a selfie.

Terry nudged me and pointed to the bar. I obliged, and we made our way forward across the crowded floor. The applauding well-wishers parted with a flourish like the waters of the biblical Red Sea. There’s a hushed whisper again as Terry, straining his biceps, gripped the rail below the polished bar top. With all his strength, he pushed his tubular frame to one side and straightened his back. 

What can I get you, sir? Said the bartender, polishing a glass. 

Drinks for all my friends, said Terry, turning to face the cheering room. 

And a diet coke with ice and a slice for my pal here, he said, winking at me. I’m the designated drinker tonight, and that’s for sure.

So much for a quiet drink.

The End