The kids’ soccer season has officially started. My last season coaching as my second son ages-out at the end of Grade 12.
Every season opener for the last 4-5 years has been played in glorious sunshine so it was only reasonable to expect the same this year. Alas, it wasn’t to be. It’s been raining for a couple of weeks so the soccer gear is already perma-damp. Balls, pinnies, bags – the whole lot smells mouldy and is stinking up the car. Nice.
Last night’s game was a typical North Shore outing. Pissing rain at the start. Heavy traffic on the Iron Workers’ Bridge and that “why the fuck am I doing this” feeling at 7pm on a Saturday night when I’d rather be sat at home drinking a nice glass of Merlot. Keep repeating the mantra “It’s for the kids”.
Anyway, the good guys won 4-2 after a physical game complete with one red card (my centre back) and a psychotic player on the other team who oozed barely-suppressed violence. The cream on the cake was the ref: a pedantic disciplinarian from the military school of reffing.
