There comes a time in every man's life when the football skills that once was as artistic as any real man comes to dancing - a shoulder drop... accelerate... left-right foot shuffle and a gently caressing the ball passed a defender flumoxed in mid bamboozlement and inappropriate cursing at the attacker, and I am pleased to say a defender plainly made to look silly by yours truly. The defender was several times my boy. Nowadays the shoulder drop - accelerate resembles a stumbling over a round ball that seems to have rectangular bits, if not a down right falling over.
Creaking bones forced for one last effort of daddy glory on a lazy Sunday afternoon sunshine, is not exactly inspiring the next generation that life starts at forty plus. I look to the heavens and unsteadily push the knees skywards, as athritus is being blamed for a slight hiccup in the grand plan of making him look silly on the hallowed turf of the garden.
I am afraid I am that age when my memories of "doing" the boy is so much in the past tense that I am reliant on videos and a little boy kicking grass in frustration for the ball has disappeared with Daddy. His ball. Today I kick the grass and then pretend I didn't. I am after all an adult.
The good thing with all this and my lack of good grace in defeat, is that he still wants to play footie with old fella.