Soccer season has taken a lot out of the boys of the house
We finally reached the end of the soccer season for my boys and when I say 'boys' I mean of course my husband too. They are less about watching from the sofa and more the get up and do it yourselves kind of guys so it has been a long and muddy trek through winter to reach the holy grail of the cup final. Even I, with my vague and distracted knowledge of the game could see that the league is just a series of home and away friendly matches but this cup meant something!
It has never been clear to me why anyone would want to run around in shorts and a jersey on days more suited to thermals, but I applaud their enthusiasm and try not to let them see me wince when they return blue and shivering.
I was unprepared for the effect that the whole enterprise was having on their dad as he negotiated the journey with them. We all know that on one level or another we live vicariously through our children, but along with extra training and practice matches, discussions of strategy and team dynamics came a marked increase in their fatherís levels of dare I say it, fanaticism.
As parents there are so many 'have-to's' but every once in a while there is a merging of interests, and organising and taxiing, cheering and supporting become less about have-to and more about want-to.
As football fatigue was setting in for the girls of the family it was clear that dad and the boys had the bit firmly between their teeth and were not letting go. The weeks ticked by, the points accumulated and the teams crept slowly up the table.
As the level of soccer skills increased the training sessions became broader, covering team play, grace in victory and defeat, tolerance, self-care and inclusion of all.
The coaches were marvellous, ordinary men giving of themselves and their free time, juggling as much as most of us do but always encouraging, professional and sympathetic. That is, until last Sunday. Every man in the stadium without exception, devolved into some kind of lower order human where it was a fight, not just for the cup it seemed but for life itself.
As the teams battled it out for the honour of the title, remember these are nine and ten year olds, grown men swooned and screamed, leapt to their feet and fell shattered to the ground with each slip of a foot.
Watched agog
One father vaulted the barrier to embrace what I dearly hope was his son following the first goal of the match. I watched agog as the two ran the length of the pitch yelling in unadulterated delight, they could not have been happier with a Euro Millions win.
My husband is a reasonably sanguine, measured and utterly devoted father but I feared for the sanity and safety of all my boys as the hysteria mounted. Teams evenly matched, the game ebbed and flowed, it seemed as if the prize was within our grasp.
As the final minute ticked away nerves were shredded and extra time was called to settle the one goal apiece deadlock.
Thirty seconds to go saw the dream slip away and all that remained was to collect the runners-up medal. Was it all worth it? Undoubtedly there are lessons in the importance of participating, giving your best and building resilience.
My sons are fine; they will return next year for round two, I'm less sure about their dad. He swallowed a large dose of disappointment I fear he may never recover. If wishing made it so…