The vintage sportsman
February 5th 2009 22:57
I had an idea, and suggested it, and Charlie agreed. Then I realised I had spoken without thinking, and maybe this wasn't a very good idea at all.
The idea was to go to the park and have a kick of the footy.
Charlie is 13. I'm 55. I haven't kicked a football for a couple of millennia. Charlie hasn't kicked a football for a couple of months. He's been too busy playing summer sports. I've been busy too, watching summer sports.
Could I still even kick a ball? Could I catch one? Could I raise my arms over my head? Could I get out of this chair?
Could I find a football?
I did find one, but doing so bred further questions of the what-were-you-thinking variety. It was a fine, expensive, unused football which bore the proud name of the maker and a dozen or so other names signed in black felt pen. I remember being given the ball by my brother, who told me the identity of the signatories. But now I couldn't remember who they were.
After all this time, I decided, I didn't care. I found a bike pump and the correct attachment, and I inflated the ball.
All of this was watched with some surprise, some concern and not a little amusement by my wife and Charlie's mum. They are best buddies, and the talk during this drop-in visit was of topics guaranteed to bore the 13-year-old Charlie and 11-year-old younger brother Cameron. The most common topic, for example, was Charlie and Cameron. Dental visits, school reports, changing clothes sizes ... you get my drift.
I noticed what the women didn't, a certain lassitude on the part of the boys, and that's when the idea for a kick of the footy popped into my head.
Cameron wanted to come too, although he wouldn't be kicking the ball as he had recently fallen from his bike and broken his ankle and was still recovering. Cool! Or at least it was until they took the plaster off. Now he was stuck in no boy's land - too early to kick a footy and too late to collect autographs.
When we were ready to leave the house, the women went into their nature's protectors routine. Sunblock, water, sandwiches, clean handkerchiefs, clean underwear and reiteration of procedures for the 72 most common emergencies likely to befall three males walking five minutes to a nearby park. Okay, I exaggerate. Slightly.
My wife was looking at me as if she wanted to say something thoughtful and caring - something like, "Are you completely mad?" - but didn't.
As we left the house I bounced the oblong football and - all the practice of that art as a seven-year-old coming good - it returned true and straight into my hands. An excellent start!
Kicking from end to end, with the two ends comprising anything from one to 20 people, is part of the Australian fabric. Or at least, in the southern states where Australian football is the predominant winter code. The kids who play rugby, soccer and American football don't do it - none of those sports demands of all its players a complete set of both hand and foot skills.
So wherever you go in southern Australia in winter you will see kids in back yards and parks and streets. Kick, catch; kick, catch.
It changes only slightly with the years. Kick, catch, drop, fetch; kick, catch, drop, fetch.
But I had a lot of fun. And I discovered something - I can still lift my arms over my head.
images: www.realfooty.com.au, www-static.sportingpulse.com
Lifting the arms above the head is important in Australian football
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Comment by Chris Champion
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Thanks for your comment. Sorry to hear you have a little dick. But I guess it matches your brain.
Keep warm now.