Football Tears (Not Mine)...

Boy8 didn't make the football team.

Gutted.

(This all happened a while back, didn't want it to be topical at all, so don't worry, all wounds have been healed and forgotten).

Oh and by football, I mean soccer, not rugby with padding american football.

They had try-outs at school and he didn't get picked.

He had practised and everything. He had his England kit on. Surely, surely? Wearing the England kit can only bring you luck and success? Surely?

But it didn't and he was gutted, big man tears, gutted.

Proper, I just dropped my phone down the toilet, and flushed, gutted.

I was at work when the guttingness (real word) happened, obv. that’s where I always am.

Mrs. Amazing told me that Boy8 had man-tears rolling down his face, as he stood there, frozen, letting it go, soaked to the bone, in his football kit he loves so much. Explaining to his Mum how today, actually, wasn't a try-out like he'd thought it was.

The team had been picked last week.

And he wasn't on it. Today was just for fun.

Apparently.

(Are you sure that boy is only 8? He looks small..)

Mrs. Amazing had a word with the utter idiot, football man.

Not to complain that Boy8 didn't get on the team. I assure you. Team parents (yay!) accept that not everyone can be on a 7-aside eight year old primary school team.

Even if they really, really, want to.

Mrs. Amazing had a word because the team selector was blind because Boy8 turned up and played, thinking there was a chance he would get on the team.

When there wasn't a chance he was going to get on the team. It had already been decided. Just no one had told Boy8, or he hadn't been listening.

Although I suppose in fairness had Boy8 rocked on that pitch and scored 15 conversions, took a few wickets and then winked out for victory (that's footie right?) he might have got on the team. Although if he could do that, I'd be out in the cold watching my retirement plan him.

Our issue is that Boy8 thought he had a chance. When he didn't.

The utter plumb football man could have saved Boy8 a lot tears.

By explaining stuff better like.

I blame me a lot too and Mrs. Amazing.

As sport was never really my thing. I liked hockey (sticks), shinty (big sticks), lacrosse (stick with nets), anything with a stick really. But 'like' and 'has skill at' are not the same things. For example: everyone in Westlife likes singing.

For me getting onto sport teams, pretty much throughout school, was either due to an enforced player rotation system, everyone got a go, or because no one else was available, by default and carefully poisoning.

Good old default and poison.

Genetically Boy8 needed to sidestep Team Parents (yay!) sporting genes.

There's sporting greatness down the generations, a bit left, and a few suspect marriages along, but it's there. Waiting to be unleashed once again like a beast in the dark, awaiting its moment to strike. Stirring in its cold cave, as the first rays of sunlight for over thirty years pierce its underground prison. The light bouncing down tunnels made my rabbits. Oh the fluffy irony...

Still... me and Mrs. Amazing do have other skills that work well in adult life. I can juggle (true story), Mrs. Amazing can do a triple back-flip one hand cartwheel (less true), I can do this dance...

<does awesome dance>

… see! we got skills.

And it's pretty rare that other adults ask to see my football skills. It’s more beer drinking ability. Or name that car (stupid game). Or share your property plans (Zzz).  

Ironically the only person that ever asks me to play football and see my football skills, is Boy8.

He thinks I've got hella skills!

‘Young fool... '
'Only now, at the end eight, do you understand..., '
'That actually I suck at Footingball’'

('Dad no kicking hard...')

Team Parents (yay!) like a good moral so we made sure we passed on a good message about this all to Boy8.

Bad luck. Try again next time. More practise, don't feel down, you've no idea what the entry criteria was, they were all the coaches family, bribes / brides were involved.

Which he seems to have taken on board.

Still I thought some special Dad love and care would help him out a bit...

<Boy8 is sat watching tele before bed>

'Sup

‘'Sup’

Heard what happened

'Yeah'

You OK?

'Yeah… Bit disappointed' <A few tears escape, but most are manfully held back>

Yeah...

Don’t worry I know what to do (I do), I'm a modern Dad.

I know that secretly he is reaching out to me for a bit of support. He is being all tough to copy me, but really he wants me to connect with me, and it's up to me to make that connection, or this moment will pass. I have to somehow show him how that it is OK to a bit teary and soft, whilst being manly and tough. Shiiiit

It's now or never come hold me close.

Luckily I know what to do (lords knows how).

<Lays on top of Boy8, flattening him totally>

'Oh man you're heavy'

Can you breath?

'J..ust'

Just counts as a yes

See! Told you I knew what to do.

Me and Boy8 just lay there chatting, one of us being flattened.

I tell him about my sporting failures, so he knows it's OK to not get in the team. I point out he is going to miss lots of cold wet mornings outside. He agrees and goes to laugh, but is finding it hard to breath with me laid on top of him.

Maybe there was some magic in the air, maybe it was the force, maybe our father-son connection worked better than it ever had before, maybe being flattened really focuses the mind, but I felt I really got through to him. I totally held his attention and he listened to my every word.

Good times. 

Good flattening times.