Sunday morning at the park

On the way back from church on Sunday morning I came back through the little green by the train station. It was really busy; full of buggies and youngsters playing ball. One family caught my attention in particular. The little boy can only have been about three, he was unsteady on his legs and although he kicked the ball nine times out of ten, he was unable in any way to give it a direction.

It was lovely to watch, but then I noticed poor old dad. He stood, head in hands, waiting for the ball to be kicked. Then he watched it trickle away to his left. With a speed which must have seemed excruciatingly slow to the little boy, he shambled over to the ball. Delivering it back to the eager face, wrapped up in plenty of layers; he began the process all over again.

Poor dad flinched every time he was called, and I would make a cliched guess that his slow Sunday morning game was directly related to a Saturday afternoon spent watching the six nations with beer and a bag of crisps in hand.

Luckily, I was feeling fine, although I enjoyed my Saturday afternoon in the pub watching the rugby. It made a change to watch a big sporting match in the afternoon, rather than at 9am. It was always fun to watch football or rugby over breakfast in Chicago, but there is something very comforting about watching after lunch, and about being able to phone people in the same time zone to rehash the match. Not that that would be any comfort to hangover dad.