It has been a few weeks since a desperate looking woman handed me a clipboard at a rugby game, a move which saw me propelled from mere spectator and parent, to MANAGER.
RUGBY MANAGER of the F-Grade Mighty Ducks.
SO I am like Ricky Nixon a bit, without the incessant rooting and drugs.
That lady told me that I would not have to do much, so now every time I see her, my eyes narrow and one thought springs to mind.
....liar....
Last night we played under lights. On a Friday Night. Now normally my Friday nights are spent with a bottle of wine, so I am feeling very wholesome and quite clear headed this morning.
I also have no voice.
I was informed by 2 parents at about 4pm that their son's coughed, so they were unable to play. I wrote back "I hope they have a speedy recovery...." and then shot the Age Manager a note...
"So, The Mighty Ducks are down to 7 players tonight...."
Well God Bless the under 9's whose training finished just before our match started and who stepped up to have a game.
Our temporary coach is a fellow named Hutto, who is assisted by another bloke called Jim. They sorted the team while I ran around getting the players to sign on.
Mum was visiting. She knows the rules so was helpful to have there. She also cut up all the oranges that I remembered we needed about 5 minutes before the match.
The manager of the other team came across and asked me who our touch judge was. I asked him...
"Pray tell kind sir. What is a touch judge?"
And now I know, a touch judge is someone who patrols the sidelines. He also wanted to know who the Ground Marshall was.
The Ground Marshall is the person who makes sure the parents don't beat the shit out of each other. I surveyed the gathered crowd and suggested the only incidents I foresaw was perhaps a battle over who had the biggest share portfolio.
I made Mr. Woog the Ground Marshall. He goes to the gym and boxes, so it was a good fit.
The game started. It was a cracker and by half time The Mighty Ducks were winning, which does not really say much about the other team just quietly.
The opposition's team manager came to check the scores and I showed him smugly And then I said.....
"I am sure there is a chance you can catch up..."
Karma was watching and kicked my ass...
The opposition had obviously been administered some red cordial during the pep talk and over, and over and over they went. Until I ran out of space on my score card.
And then the winds chanced again and my son, MY SON, turned on his inner mongrel and morphed into some giant beast who drove that ball through walls of green players, setting up some of the best tries ever witnessed in the game they play in heaven.
I might be exaggerating here.....
Little did I know that my Mum told him at half time that she would give him $5 for every try he scored. Money talks, it would seem.
As I watched Harry slice through the opposition like a hot knife through butter, the stand in coach quipped "He is like a D9 Caterpillar."
Harry is not fast at running and I suspected it was a dig at that. Was I to be offended?
When time was called, the scores were even and our team carried on like we had won the final or something, simply because we didn't lose.
And the D9 Caterpillar was named man of the match!
I got home and made Harry something to eat. He was ravenous and covered in dirt. I put him into a Radox bath and checked my emails. And there was a message from the coach, explaining exactly what a D9 Caterpillar was, along with a short video.
Then Harry called out from the bath, asking if I could make him a fruit salad, and my mind went straight to this....
And that is how we didn't lose round 2. Am off to wash jerseys now. Glorious, victorious jerseys.
What sport are you watching this weekend?
