A Misunderstood Man

Mark McConville

photo credit: Mark McConville

“Cherish all the moments of tenderness and optimism as they can all fade in an instance’’

Those words ring true today, as they did back then. And the battle-hard persona of a misunderstood man began to crumble the day I looked him in the eyes and thought about the pain riffling through his body and the dreams in his head turning to dust. His skin was yellowing too, and he spoke slowly as every word he expressed was causing him discomfort. I had no answers to his disjointed speech, and he had become disengaged minute by minute, falling deeply into sleep and then sparking into life on occasion. He was tired, broken-hearted, feeling the world weigh heavily on his thin, scrawny shoulders, and I watched on as a spotty kid, sitting there, trying not to lose my heart and mind.

And this enigmatic presence continually amazed me with his astuteness, his intelligence, and the way he stumbled at times through life but always got back up and rallied against the world like a team of rebels. He spoke, in a sophisticated manner too, educating me, as I wanted to fall deeply into a virtual arena. Gaming was my route to a composed, peaceful mood, where I could be free, even though some of the games I played were dark in subject and ferocious in their combative lands.

He craved to see the light turn the grey mornings into sunshine soaked moments, where pain would be suppressed by the elegance and nimbleness. Moments like those were rare, though, as I can remember him kicking the fallen toast, and smashing it into the floor. It’s weird to remember such moments, the instances, which should be classed as afterthoughts. His anger brought out a different man, a monster in human clothes, and one who dismissed the beauty of life.

Depression was cutting, debilitating, but he didn’t talk about it. I knew, by his repent of everything beautiful, he was struggling and ailing. His body beaten down by broken ribs when he fell drunk on the staircase, his left hand burnt by a fire caused by his own negligence, and this fire turned his lungs black and barely responsive. And he turned into a man beyond his years, an animal, not fit, but living on borrowed time.

There were memories, recollections of hopefulness. The nights spent watching Celtic push on through to the UEFA Cup Final in 2003, were priceless and less abrasive. The goal from Welsh striker John Hartson hit the net with potency and verve against Liverpool in the quarter final, and we both jumped in unison, parading the living room like crazy fans. And being together with him and being fearless, and happy, had meant the world to me.  

I was young and naïve and didn’t know what cancer was. And a man, who I loved, had become stricken. He blamed himself, walking aimlessly through the void, attacking the walls with his fists, crying to me through the telephone, and fading.

I sat beside him, in a fluorescent room, speaking about the past, and the trials and tribulations. He spoke in his intelligent Scottish accent, and told me the world can be a cruel place. I respected his speeches, his shrewdness, and the way he weaved words.

In 2004, the man who graced the world with his passion and intelligence, his spark of rage, passed away. Cancer had taken him, and I was 14 years of age, afflicted by the thick mist and snow of a Scottish winter. My body felt weightless at that time, like I was going to float off into a darkened world, where ghosts would take me too. But I had to go on, traumatised and wrecked by the death of a misunderstood man. 

Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. His chapbook Lyrics From The Chamber is out now. @writer1990mark