Tuesday, 9 June 2015

"The One Where I Pretend to be 'Sporty Mum'..."

Triumphant Medal 

I don't think that in the arsenal of descriptive words used to describe me, the word 'athletic' would pop up in the Top Ten.  Come to think of it, it's very doubtful that it would even make it onto the Top 100.

Now don't get me wrong.  I run, swim (strictly warm seas though - I deplore swimming pools and don't do cold), play tennis, table tennis, and once played defence for a whole season in football when I was twelve. Does that count?

What I don't do is cycling (sorry husband, but riding home pissed with you from Soho on my powder pink Brompton at stupid o'clock is about as adventurous as I get on two wheels...I simply cannot abide by the vile spandex costuming required by MAMILS in order not to chafe ones undercarriage. Besides, I have great respect for that undercarriage thank you very much and wish to preserve it in its current state well into my dotage).

I also don't do team sports.  My husbands says that's because I am not (and I quote) "a team player". True.  But I also don't like getting sweaty, running around a field and getting shoved or knocked into. I like my space.  Maybe if I could wear headphones whilst roaring around to "Rage Against the Machine" I could discover some unbridled passion for 'sport' but somehow I can't see it.

I also don't 'get' team sports and all the stopping/starting/scoring and the legions of fans that stand on the sidelines clapping/screaming/chanting.  I will watch Wimbledon, but that's as much for the strawberries and cream as it is for the short white skirts, headbands and tanned legs.  It's a good look.

So imagine my surprise when Squit and I rocked up to Egg's cricket championship against 18 other schools in the borough yesterday (check me out - it's a bonafide fact and it makes me sound knowledgable don't it?).  Husband, if you're reading this, I was the ONLY PARENT there from the class (ahem) cheering from the sidelines with the fat baby yelling, "Go Eggie" every time he came up for bat.
Proud little 'brudder'
(Note: Egg had to jog over at one point during a break in the game and gently explain the finer points of point scoring to me as I had apparently been cheering at the wrong parts...but I think i've got it now.)

Anyway, Egg's amazing coach smiled and walked over after the first match, probably curious about which of his charges belonged to the cheering baby and mum in ripped jeans, bright red lipstick and black RayBans, crashed out on a bright red blanket with her laptop open...in case she got bored?
my dude...being a Sporto...who would have thunk it?
We watched Egg's team decimate two different schools and I even eavesdropped whilst two parents from a losing team gossiped about how Egg's school had this legendary coach who was responsible for all their wins so it wasn't strictly fair (thankfully I managed to keep my mouth shut and stifle my inner hooligan).

I then watched Egg smash some amazing balls, throw like a pro, and dare I say I FINALLY got that feeling of PSP (Parental Sporting Pride) watching my little guy perform like a star.  But more importantly, I finally GOT IT.

I GOT that FEELING that I've only ever seen on sitcoms or dramas (think opening scene in 'Weeds'), of being a real live proper 'Soccer Mum' or 'Hockey Mum' or whatever you want to call it. Grimacing when Egg missed a ball, ears prickling with pride when he was cheered on by strangers...you know what I'm talking about.  In fact I'm probably the last one to 'get it'.
moments after a killer 'thwack' of the cricket ball
So I guess the moral of this story is that you CAN sometimes teach an old broad new tricks.  Which means that the husband probably shouldn't line up a divorce solicitor quite yet (he has been threatening that ever since he announced that he plans to spend his sunset years on the back of a bicycle and I can either join him or bugger off.)

Maybe, just maybe if I can turn into 'Sporty Mum' for a day, then who knows...getting me into some crotch-grabbing lycra might not be completely outside the realm of possibility.

Then again, as I make my second cappuccino of the morning and type, I smile knowingly to myself and think, "the knees...the knees" and wonder if it's not wisest to just sit back, let the years roll by and the husbands joints do the talking.

I'm not giving up on romantic rail or first class air travel just yet :)

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