Mr7 has had a big week. In the past seven days he has quit guitar (yes, I’m devastated to be going solo, but there is good news – more about that later in the week) and taken up soccer. He has bright-yellow- and-black socks. Huge black shorts. A bright-yellow-and-black shirt of questionable polyester content. And, the piece de resistance (for him, anyway), bright-yellow-and-black boots. With what Mr4 would call Hunormous black shoelaces.
Team sports are a new world to me. I never did them as a kid. I was a five hours of ballet a week girl. No running. No bonding. No, God forbid, catching. I did join a basketball team once. My poor Dad was the coach. We were abysmal. No, correct that, I was abysmal. My idea of defence was to wait at the other end of the court in case of an interception. Heaven only knows what I thought I was going to do if the opposition actually came near me.
I suspect Mr7 is made of the same stuff. So far the most advanced part of his game is the Theatrics. In this area he could rival that French guy who took a dive and robbed us of our chance in the World Cup. (I think that’s the story… could be wrong.) He has been to three training sessions and played two games. At half time in the first game he came off, smiling, and said to his Dad, “Well, that was fun.” It was up to The Builder to break it to him, gently, that there was another half to go.
This week, he did get more involved. He got the ball twice (yes, I was thrilled). He took a kick-off, cunningly kicking it straight to the other team, rather than the expected move of passing it across the field to someone on his own team. Tactics, I tell you.
Most of the time, he bobs along about three metres behind the play, huffing and puffing, sighing and humphing, blowing his air from his eyes (yes, he needs a haircut – Justin Bieber may be able to play soccer with that fringe but mere mortals cannot), and, apparently, praying a lot that the ball stays well away. It’s all very entertaining, if not very effective.
I suspect it’s going to be a long season but, for now, I’m just happy he’s happy to go along. If only for the oranges.