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| Courtesy of Naypong at FreeDigitalPhotos.net |
Throughout his childhood, I would routinely take him to his
junior football games, stand on the side line shouting words of encouragement,
and deliver a sweaty, mud-splattered boy to the safety of home. During the
return journey we’d discuss the match and his performance, analysing his
strengths and weaknesses. We’d share our delight about a thunderous tackle and a
defence-splitting pass. We’d discuss a dubious refereeing decision or the
histrionic behaviour of the opposition’s manager. Often I would nag him about
trailing sludge into my car and sullying the upholstery, and he’d urge me to
“chill out”.
Ryan is now over six-feet tall, with a build like a spinach-fuelled Popeye. In an entertaining game, his pub team defeated their local rivals, 4 – 2. My son impressed in the central midfield area, spraying precision passes around the field with his cultured left foot – an asset (I insist) that he inherited from his father. Ryan scored one goal, and created two others.
At the end of the game, I bristled with pride as I marched
onto the pitch to congratulate him.
“Well played son; that was a great performance.”“Cheers, dad” he replied.
And then he left with his team-mates, heading for the pub to
celebrate their victory with some post-match beers and sandwiches, an enjoyable
pilgrimage I had made multiple times during my football-playing days.
I returned to my car, alone. As I set off for home, a
profound emptiness engulfed me. A ridiculous voice in my head screamed, “He
should be with me!” The voice of reason retorted, “He’s crossed the threshold
into adulthood; he no longer requires your chaperone.” My vision blurred as I
struggled to see through a watery haze. I pulled over to the side of the road.
The pollen count must have been high.
