Troubled Beginnings

The first hurdle of the season was how to broach the subject with the nearest and dearest.

My long suffering wife has probably not seen me on a Saturday during a season for much more than 2 or 3 day light hours in the last 10 years.

A Saturday match day routine would normally involve me getting up, organising my kit (by which I really mean running around for 20 minutes per item of kit trying to find it.)

Followed by at least 10 minutes swearing when I realise the washing fairies have forgotten to route around my damp sports holdall in the intervening week.

I would then head out around 11.00. Travel between 40 minutes and 2 hours to the ground depending upon whether we were playing in Buxton or Northampton , play the match, get changed, share a few usually friendly after match pints and a chip cob with the opposition before returning home 6-7 hours later, usually too tired to do much else but sit on the sofa, fall asleep and alternately dribble and snore in time with the opening tune of Ant and Decs Saturday take away.

Therefore when I proudly announced I was giving up the playing for good my wife no doubt dreamed about Saturdays with the kids skipping through sunny meadows, (or invariably Meadow hall).

In order to approach the subject of giving up my Saturdays playing for watching I did what only mature adult males can do.................................I said nothing and hoped it would go away.

How then to buy the season ticket without my better half finding out about it? Simple I thought, I'd sneak out of the house on a warm Sunday at the end of June on the pretext of washing the car.
“I'm off to wash the car darling, be back in 15-20 minutes”.
“Are you taking Josh?” came the reply.

“Sh*t!” I thought, what do I do now? If I say no, she'll guess something is up.

If I say yes, there is a greater possibility that my 3 year old may give the game away.

Thinking quickly on my feet I go for the latter option knowing that some bribery at the garage with some chocolate buttons will normally keep the 'chief dobber' from spilling the beans.

I make way to the ground and any chance of keeping things a secret are soon dispelled as I bundle my son out of the car.

“Who's that Daddy?” enquires my son as Sammy the Stag, complete with comedy foam antlers and big fluffy feet comes bounding across the players car park.

After 5 minutes of 'Peep-Boo' with Sammy by which time I manage to pay for my season ticket and Josh teaches Sammy the Stag his special handshake I return to the car knowing the game is up.