Have you been at Saturday sports?
Of course, it’s all about the kids. The children are our future. Let them play Saturday sport, and they will become rounded citizens.
But what of the parents? What about them? They’ve been at work all week — working for The Man. What they really want is a Saturday morning lie-in, optional-extra ‘knee trembler’, and a strong coffee or five. A read of the Herald and a good old bitch on Twitter.
What do they get? They get to don a puffer jacket and Glastonbury-style gumboots, or whatever is in season at Barkers, jump into the people mover and head off to the sports fields of the nation. They have to stand and cringe their way through 90 minutes of amateur (both unpaid, and utterly shit) form, and falsify their emotions
Well done Tarquin! How pleased I am with that. All that practising has really paid off, Big Guy!
and then they turn straight back to the comfort of their phones, the warmth and wisdom of the device the only refuge from this freezing hell. Occasionally there is the requisite talk about future schooling; a topic for a whole other blog. “Which school? How much? In zone or out? What’s the ethnic composition? Does it fit my blinkered white reality?” … rambles a disordered parent nearby.
Back to our weary parents, who, after the match, are forced to quickly find sustenance for the muddied and bad-tempered children. A bagel? A Powerade? A quick bitch about the opposition being poofters. A quick explanation about poofter meaning something else in the 80s. Possibly. A quick lecture about never repeating anything a parent says in the confines of a people mover, after Saturday sport.
And it’s over. It’s over until next weekend and that may as well be a lifetime away because the modern parent thinks in terms of minutes, hours, days.
A week is a year. And pain has no memory.