Saturday mornings are defined by only one thing. Namely, which chilly field I find myself stood before to watch my youngest play for his under-8 football team.
Now, if this is training - as is more often the case - I'll admit after about 30 mins I lose the will to live during the winter months for the chill factor is almost always in double figure minuses. That, I fear, is a draw back of living on the coast. To say the wind whips over the sea and plunges a few degrees is something of an understatement.
My early Saturday afternoon is almost always spent in a bath trying to get some feeling back in my feet. Ideally, I'd like to be fully submerged in that tank thing Luke Skywalker finds himself in after being attacked by that monster in the ice cave on Hoth at the start of Empire Strikes Back - that looks lovely and cosy.
Anyway, this week was a match. And, as I think I've droned on about on these pages before, a match is ruddy exciting.
Made more so this weekend as my youngest had received a text message from the coach asking him if he fancied playing out of goal for once. Now, without allowing my over riding pride drown out the facts here, he is a jolly good goalie. He flies this way and that with no fear for his own safety. Or, indeed, the fact he's the only player on the team with glasses. So it is left to me to panic he'll get a boot in the lenses one of these days.
However, he does get a bit bored in goal. And he loves, as any young boy does, the thrill of the ball at your feet trying to score or set up goals. So he leapt at the chance.
And it left me anxious for the end of last week. How would he get on. Would his goalie replacement highlight any shortcomings my boy had? I even ended up having one of the other dads ring me up expressing surprise my little one wasn't going to be in goal but saying he appeared as good in training the other night out of goal as he did in it ('he's got a lovely touch, he's a real natural' - not words frequently heard directed in my family's direction when it comes to sporting prowess).
Anyway, I was concerned by the time I lined up at 9.30am yesterday on the side of an artificial pitch for the game. Concerned too for my health as I was hideously under dressed for such an ice cold day.
Ten mins in he'd hardly got a touch. But he looked the part. He marked, he ran into space...but his team were heading into the half time break trailing by a goal to nil. Then he got the ball on the edge of the area. He controlled it. He looked up. He tried a shot...and, just like in the films, slow motion kicked in. It flew...it landed, it bounced...it ended up in the back of the net...
It was everything I could do not to pull my shirt and jumper up, expose to the world the blancmange masquerading as my chest and run around the pitch in celebration. My boy hardly even broke out a smile.
Yeah, the other kid in goal was pretty good, but my little one did me super proud. And personally I hope he's not in goal any more.
Flying solo at the Emirates
3 days ago