soccer on the sabbath

soccer on the sabbath

Initially I said No, because I reckon one day of sport per weekend is enough for a 12 year old with  a week of school ahead. I believe in a Day Of Rest. In theory, at least.

This week there has been a soccer catch-up match on tuesday after school, regular soccer practise Wednesday after school, the game on Saturday, and then another catch-up match ( due to recent rain cancellations) today, Sunday, out at West Woop Woop, an hour’s drive away. Groan.

The importance of Not Letting The Team Down is mentioned, but ultimately  I decree  that it’s neccessary to get some chill-out time, before the next action-packed school week begins. 

Then after the match yesterday, F and his team mate E present their case. Such adorable boys they can be when they want to. The team really needs him. He’s not the tiniest bit tired, swear to God. Then E’s father, one of the coaches, says in a tone of deep seriousness,  “Can I have a word with you?”  And tells me  they’ll have to cancel if F pulls out, they’ve barely got a side, they really need him as a sweeper. He’s a key player. He can get a lift there. 

After a brief conference with D, we say okay. 

Sunday morning dawns, grey and damp with “Stay in bed and read a book” written all over it. Even F  looks a bit sorry to have to drag himself out from under the doona. We have to be at the Post Office, at 8.30 a.m for the car pool. Come on, you have to eat something before you go. Have you got your shin pads? Hurry up, put that comic book away, we’re late, concentrate! Etc. ie pretty much like a regular school day.

There they all are at the P.O. Faithful parents, all rugged up, skinny-legged boys milling about  on the steps in their blue soccer shorts. Then someone gets a text : The game is cancelled. Disappointment, relief, shrugs, re-arrangements. We go home and get stuck into today’s planned task: cleaning out the cupboard in F’s room.

getting through the impasse

About 80% of his clothes don’t fit him anymore. I help him sort. Here’s the crocodile t-shirt I bought back from Cairns, and the New Zealand one from Dad , and Ollies stylish much loved shirts, and all the fantastic opshop finds from J, and a whole swag of colourful tropical shirts , size 8, 10, 12, all too small. The old rainbow tie-dyes, he wouldn’t be seen dead in nowadays. But he clings to a couple of faves - Tin Tin In Vietnam, and Felix The Cat. An old Santa hat from the depths of the wardrobe  goes onto his head.

He plays rap music ( Zombie Love Song, Orphan Tears, The Sea Is Rising), while we sort. I actually enjoy most of it. Good beat, interesting words. Though could do with out the indiscriminate sprinkling of the F-word through almost every song.  

Remember this shirt, that you wore to church in Samoa, remember  when these stripey thermals fitted you, you looked like a little bumble bee...

Remember, remember...When we moved here, less than two years ago his room was still full of  cars and dinosaurs and soft toys. Now it’s Simpsons mags and books, books, books. Nothing like parenthood to keep you in touch with constant change.

Actually, we haven’t finished his room yet. Just having a break.The cupboard is miraculously tidy, shirts are on hangers, there is a big op shop box. But we’ve hit that awful place - the impasse, which seems to occur during any sort of serious clean up ( literal, psychological...)  -  when you’ve got a pile of uncatergorizable junk sitting on the bedroom floor and can feel momentum trickling away. Though you’re actually almost there. No way forward but though. Better get back to it.