As I sat and thought back on the guy that trod on us, flattening our will and desire to grow, I was hit with a compulsion. I remembered his trainers — black and white Air Max. The expense, from the son of a builder who didn’t seem to be flush with much more, spared just to ensure he was wearing a superior kick to the rest of us. There was more to this, I thought.

Now an adult, and a father too, I bought a pair of those trainers that marked my memory and took off walking, looking back on this bully with eyes anew. He was always hoarse from the smoke plumes he lived in, overblown and all around him. The anger he carried was learned at home. The youngest of three, I now realise he was forced to fight his corner just to keep himself safe. All he did was bring that into school. I knew this behaviour as I suffered it too. A father who cared but didn’t talk, more interested in work, a bottle, or the match over considering how his words might affect you.

Surrounded by messages and images of winners, of pride and aggression from the sports where your heroes wore Nikes or Adidas Predators, it’s clear what you thought you needed to mirror.

After a mile, I stopped. I took off the shoes, sauntering home in my socks. Happy to disconnect from him again, but lighter now, because I understood why he battered and bit, why he felt he had to suppress and to win. I thought, ‘his brothers were mean; they learned it there too,’ as I wandered home to consider my win, thinking what his brothers’ punches had meant to him. He was just a little boy, the smallest of three, who carried to school what he had learned and seen.

Forgiven.