"Pass it to me! Pass it to me! Come on come on!"
There is the dull thud of a ball hitting concrete and a cheering as it goes through the hoop. I hear it again, bounce, bounce and I run to the window to watch and stand on my tiptoes (my brothers are always teasing me that I am too short). Nervously I cast a glance back at the shut door. I have at least a few moments before my father, or "Joseph" as he likes me to call him, comes through the door looking for me. If I am lucky, it will only be one of my brothers. If I am unfortunate it will be him.
I feel sick thinking about it.
I open the window as best I can and the warm summer air wafts in, bringing with it the cries of the kids in the playground.
It is an idyllic scene. The kids are playing basketball, the sun is setting over the city, and I can catch on the breeze the scent of a barbecue. I don't remember ever having one of them. I don't remember a time I wasn't in a recording studio or on a stage in a nightclub. I wonder what it must be like as I watch those kids playing, laughing, slapping each other on the shoulder, and jostling for the ball to be able to have a normal life with friends of your own age, other than your brothers, to tear around with, to play with. I imagine that when they are finished playing they will go home to their families, watch TV, eat popcorn and then go to bed. Nothing in their minds but the summer and what they are doing tomorrow. Maybe I could go down there, maybe just for a moment....maybe....we could be friends...I am shy....but maybe....
"Michael!" the door opens. I hear his footsteps approaching me.
I feel sick.
"You must come now, boy! We are waiting for you."
I turn round nervously.
"Dad..."
His eyebrows shoot down as his eyes lower into a frown. His lip curls. I hurriedly correct myself.
"Joseph....please...please could I go down to the playground. I won't be long, just a few...."
His gaze silences me. My voice dies in my throat. I stare at the floor.
"Michael, the studio is paying through the nose for this session. You are not going anywhere other than the recording booth."
I want to stay by the window. I want to watch the kids. I want their life. I want to play games. I want....
It's almost as if he can read my mind.
"I don't care WHAT you want" he thunders grabbing my arm roughly and pulling me out of the room. "You will come right away boy, and do as you are told, none of this mouth! I don't want to hear your noise unless it's through a microphone."
I look longingly out of the window as I am pulled roughly away from my idyll, down the golden record decorated hallway and then into the recording studio. My brothers are silent. They know better than to say anything. We all do.
As I am forced into the dark room, trying not to let the hated tears spill down my cheeks (he will mock me further), I put the headphones on and tell myself that one day I will have all those things - a basketball court, friends to play with, and a sizzling barbecue in the background.
I will remember this moment.
Always.