Match report
Make a single child suffer and before you know it it’s social services at the door, blanket over the head for the court appearance and a spell of being horribly beaten every day for your prison term.
Make a number of children suffer at once and it’s called organised sports. Specifically, little league.
Yes, the local footie little league has kicked off again in style. Oh, I know, the season and indeed games started a few weeks ago - but that wasn’t the real deal. That was just kids running about enjoying themselves, booting the ball up and down the pitch and generally doing what they would have been doing on a Saturday morning anyway, but with the added bonus of having their parent scream encouragement from the sidelines before formally assaulting the coach for not giving little Tyler more time on the pitch.
This was the real deal: this was rain. This Saturday saw the little league playing in foul weather. The goalmouth looked like a homage to the Somme and the rain was coming in horizontally, straight from the Urals and fuck the passport control mate.
This of course meant that proper football could be played. This mainly consisted of young children nearly dying of exposure and exhaustion, their only compensation the occasional goal or, more likely, the shocking sting of a football slamming into a wet, cold thigh.
Of course the supporters earned their stripes too. I was wrapped in layers of fleece and gor-tex. Many of the local mothers had taken the precaution of being grossly fat and were able to live of these reserves for the duration of the match. Well, that and pies.
It’s a mixed ability group that play, that’s for sure. Not only that but you can tell who has Sky telly. If there’s some three foot yob who’s versed in the latest punching, pulling and professional fouling, not to mention spitting and abusing, then it’s a certainty their have a satellite dish strapped to the side of their home.
Top marks though go to my nephew. Playing in goal this weekend with a pair of gloves that he had to work harder and harder to keep dry by rubbing on a pair of track suit bottoms that were getting wetter and wetter, he stood in the teeth of a howling gale and driving rain.
None of the kids actually burst into tears because they were so cold and wet, they didn’t really have time between the usual hysterics about falling over, being fouled or going down ten one to a girls team.
As for me, I was just happy to put off having to get back to decorating the bedroom. This weekend was glossing weekend, which traditionally culminates in ‘cut the dried gloss out of your hair’ Sunday.
Make a number of children suffer at once and it’s called organised sports. Specifically, little league.
Yes, the local footie little league has kicked off again in style. Oh, I know, the season and indeed games started a few weeks ago - but that wasn’t the real deal. That was just kids running about enjoying themselves, booting the ball up and down the pitch and generally doing what they would have been doing on a Saturday morning anyway, but with the added bonus of having their parent scream encouragement from the sidelines before formally assaulting the coach for not giving little Tyler more time on the pitch.
This was the real deal: this was rain. This Saturday saw the little league playing in foul weather. The goalmouth looked like a homage to the Somme and the rain was coming in horizontally, straight from the Urals and fuck the passport control mate.
This of course meant that proper football could be played. This mainly consisted of young children nearly dying of exposure and exhaustion, their only compensation the occasional goal or, more likely, the shocking sting of a football slamming into a wet, cold thigh.
Of course the supporters earned their stripes too. I was wrapped in layers of fleece and gor-tex. Many of the local mothers had taken the precaution of being grossly fat and were able to live of these reserves for the duration of the match. Well, that and pies.
It’s a mixed ability group that play, that’s for sure. Not only that but you can tell who has Sky telly. If there’s some three foot yob who’s versed in the latest punching, pulling and professional fouling, not to mention spitting and abusing, then it’s a certainty their have a satellite dish strapped to the side of their home.
Top marks though go to my nephew. Playing in goal this weekend with a pair of gloves that he had to work harder and harder to keep dry by rubbing on a pair of track suit bottoms that were getting wetter and wetter, he stood in the teeth of a howling gale and driving rain.
None of the kids actually burst into tears because they were so cold and wet, they didn’t really have time between the usual hysterics about falling over, being fouled or going down ten one to a girls team.
As for me, I was just happy to put off having to get back to decorating the bedroom. This weekend was glossing weekend, which traditionally culminates in ‘cut the dried gloss out of your hair’ Sunday.
1 Comments:
Kids' sports are always the most entertaining. One can easily differentiate the "4-5 year old" age group from the "6-7 year old" age group because in the 6-7 yr old group, there aren't as many kids standing around making clover chains and picking flowers.
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