The boy who never grew old

By J. Duffy

Jim and Michael had been inseparable since they were young boys. Growing up in the west of Scotland, their lives were intertwined with shared dreams, laughter, mischief, and faith.

Michael’s dad, Wullie, was a diehard Rangers fan and a season ticket holder who cheered loudly with his son from the Ibrox stands at every home match. His mother, Teresa, on the other hand, was a devout Catholic who ensured that he attended Mass with his two older sisters every Sunday, teaching them the importance of faith and kindness.

Jim, his best mate, was a passionate Celtic fan who followed his team home and away. Their football rivalry was mostly playful banter, teasing each other with good-natured insults, sometimes venturing into the old sectarianism inherent in the west of Scotland, but always in jest. They knew their friendship was stronger than any rivalry, and their teasing was just a part of childhood camaraderie.

As the boys’ confirmation approached, they felt both excitement and nerves, with the excitement mostly revolving around how much money family and friends would gift them. They knelt side by side in church, dressed in their Sunday best, ready to take the next step on their spiritual journey. The bishop, a kindly man with a gentle smile, was there to bestow the Holy Spirit upon them.

During the ceremony, while waiting for their turn to be anointed, Michael pulled up his trouser leg to reveal a pair of royal blue Rangers socks. Jim leaned in and whispered in his ear, “You’re an orange bastard.” Both of them broke into fits of giggles, caught up in the innocence of childhood teasing, knowing it was all in good fun. That day, they felt a profound sense of belonging, both to their faith and to each other.

**Tragedy Strikes**

Six months later, when the two pals had moved on to “big” school, everything changed in an instant. It was a balmy Thursday night in early summer. Michael’s 13th birthday had just passed, and he was proudly showing Jim his new bike—a ten-speed racer that was top of the line in 1981! Suddenly, a car came speeding around the bend, and before Michael could react, he was knocked off his bike, his head hitting the tarmac with a thud. He lay unconscious on the ground, a small trickle of blood coming from a tiny cut on his head. An ambulance arrived quickly, and Michael was rushed to the hospital. Jim could see Michael in the ambulance; he had regained consciousness and was talking and smiling, still full of life. The paramedics assured Jim that Michael would be fine, and it felt like a lucky escape.

Jim cycled home and told his parents that wee Michael had been “knocked doon.” His mum asked how he was, and he replied, “Well, he was talking away in the ambulance.” “Well, he’ll be fine then,” his mum said. Jim felt instantly happier; after all, his parents were never wrong. That night, he went to bed with the horrifying events of the previous hours still fresh in his thirteen-year-old mind. At that age, hugs, kisses, and reassurances were kept to an absolute minimum, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

That Sunday, after Mass, where his best pal was prayed for, the phone rang. It was Teresa, Michael’s mum. “Would you like to come up to the hospital and say goodbye to Michael?” she asked. “Eh? But he’s going to be okay! He was talking away to the paramedics; he was fine! My ma and da told me so!” he thought.

That afternoon, with heavy hearts, they turned off his pal’s life support machine. Jim was allowed to say a final goodbye. He gently touched Michael’s shin, recalling the little bruises from countless games of football, where Davie Cooper faced off against Murdo McLeod; it was always Davie Cooper and wee Murdo. In the distance from Michael’s hospital bed, he could see Ibrox; his pal would have smiled. Devastated, Jim was inconsolable at the passing of his best friend; it left a hole in his heart that would never truly heal.

At Michael’s funeral, Jim was asked to do a reading. Standing on the pulpit and staring at the coffin with his pal inside, wearing his full Rangers strip, he read with a trembling voice, the words echoing the depth of his grief. When the service was over, he returned to school, expecting some sort of outpouring, some acknowledgement of his life, of their friendship. But life had already moved on. There was no fanfare, no counselling, no grand gestures—just a quiet return to everyday life. Yet inside, Jim carried the weight of loss, never forgetting his wee pal.

Years later, Jim still follows Celtic home and away, but he remembers his Rangers-daft wee pal with affection. He thinks of the boy he called a wee turncoat, who had the biggest heart of anyone he knew. He often reflects on his wee pal, the boy who never grew old.