Free-will no more

Some things are small on the surface – a piece of clothing, a brand name, a strap peeking above a waistband. But for a boy who doesn’t belong yet, they can mean everything. This is a story about Grade 9, a new school, and the quiet, burning mission to fit in – one jockstrap at a time.

4 min read7 hours ago

Back in junior school, undies were not a thing. Nobody wore them. None of my mates, anyway. We ran around, played, sweated – and nobody thought twice about it. That was just how it was, where we came from.

Then Grade 9 happened. And everything changed.

Leaving middle school was already painful enough. But the school I was stepping into – that was another world entirely. A proper ivy college, right in the heart of Colombo. Not my sleepy suburb. Not my kind of people. I was a village boy walking into a city I didn’t know, full of city boys who had been born knowing things I hadn’t even heard of.

These fellows were something else. Tall boys in long pants. The shorter ones had leg hair. Some had wispy moustaches already creeping in. They walked with a swagger that nobody taught them – it was just in them, bred from growing up in Colombo, attending this school, being these people. They spoke differently, some slang I didn’t catch. Better English, too. Everyone was called “bugger” – this bugger, that bugger – and somehow it didn’t sound rude, it just sounded like them.

Sports were everything at this school. The Christian Brothers who ran the place cared far more about rugger and cricket thanm they did about algebra. Athletic boys were celebrated. Some of the older ones had been deliberately held back in grades – which meant my classmates were not all my age. Some were practically men already, sitting next to me in the same classroom.

I tried to keep up. Tried to blend in. But the more I talked, the more exposed I became as someone who did not belong.

And then I noticed the straps.

Sitting in class, you could see them – on their hips, peeking above the waistband. White straps, worn openly, even proudly. Jockstraps. Every sport-loving city boy’s standard-issue underpants.

For me, it was a foreign concept. I had come from a school where nobody wore anything underneath. We simply didn’t. It was not something anyone thought about, or talked about, or noticed. But here, in this ivy college full of Colombo boys, undies were not just common – they were a marker. A signal. A sign that you were one of them.

And I was not.

My voice hadn’t broken yet. I had no body hair. Not even a hint of puberty had shown up for me. The boys noticed, of course. In their banter, they’d point and say ගොනා කානුවෙ – laughing – meaning something in my pants wasn’t sitting right. I was a “free-will” boy. No undies. No straps. Just me, out of place, trying not to show it.

Inside, I felt small. Smaller than small. I burned with the need to fix this, to belong, to be like them. It became a mission – quiet, private, burning.

I had to get a jockstrap.

Asking my father was the obvious option. I ruled it out without a second thought. This was something I had to do myself. When I passed shops, I’d slow down at the glass cabinets, pretending to look at nothing in particular, secretly eyeing the jockstrap boxes on display. Two brands: DIS and WearWell. No internet back then, no reviews, no one to ask without being embarrassed. I had to figure it out the hard way.

Careful listening. Careful watching. Quiet questions to new friends when I finally trusted them enough. The verdict was clear: DIS was the one. DIS was the brand.

So I made my plan.

My pocket money was five Rupees a month – a serious sum back then, worth a working man’s daily wage. I gave up my snacks. Every five Rupee note I held, I held onto. I was saving for DIS.

Meanwhile, my body – finally – decided to cooperate. One day, without warning, there it was. Light brown, barely-there pubic hair. I felt a private pride so enormous I could barely contain it. Then, a few days later, a faint trace in my armpit. I kept touching it just to make sure it was real.

I was growing up. At last.

The savings reached their target. I walked into a shop near the school and asked for a DIS jockstrap. The shopkeeper looked me up and down.

“Only the XS will fit you,” he said, smiling. Extra small.

I handed over every coin I had saved. That afternoon, alone, I opened the package while the other boarders weren’t looking. The DIS jockstrap was shiny, creamy white. Red stripes. Bold letters. I held it. I smelled it – that clean, fresh, new smell. I had earned this.

I put it on carefully, one bony leg at a time.

Oh, God.

My groin had never experienced anything like it. I could barely walk. I played soccer that afternoon and immediately begged to switch with the goalkeeper just so I wouldn’t have to run. The thing was eating into me. Choking. My groin was on fire.

But I wore it. I wore it the next day, and the day after that. I walked slowly, yes. I winced, perhaps. But in class, I made sure my shirt rode up just enough, my waistband sat just low enough – just like them – so that the white strap was visible.

No more ගොනා කානුවෙ. No more “free-will.” I was a jockey now. Late to the party, maybe – but I had arrived.