Being the parent of a child who loves soccer (football for the purists) is hard.

In fact, it can be quite traumatic.

As another season draws to a close, I feel reflective. My son’s team really isn’t very good. 

It’s his seventh year of playing. The first few years were challenging as there weren’t any coaches available so well-meaning parents took the role. And the kids, including my son, didn’t really learn anything about the game. Over the seasons the better players were selected for better teams leaving the average. Other players left for other clubs or school teams, so cohesion and continuity hasn’t been possible. 

Happily though, these boys are no longer chasing the ball as a bunch. Today, despite a heavy loss, saw them play as a team. It was a beautiful thing to watch.

This year another parent stood up to coach, and all credit to him as he is passionate. He’s given up his time to have two practice sessions each week.

The only problem is that he is South African of Indian descent. And NO ONE understands a word he says when he’s agitated. It’s actually pretty funny.

Watching a game goes like this:

The boys aren’t getting forward quick enough… 

“Flurgle splutter blug something something DEEPER!!”

The Defenders are too far up and the opposition get through…

“Oh Jesus F**king Christ” – apparently this needs no translation.

A perfect attacking cross occurs and there are no Forwards to pick it up…

“Splutter mumble yell something something HENRY!!!!”

There is only one game left in the season. We do have one win under our belts. We’ve learned to score goals in the last few weeks. Just a bit late.

My boy has improved. He enjoys playing. I’m happy I don’t have to provide counseling after their losses any more. 

And he’s outside running around.

No downside really.