Family Matters ? By Jude Dobson

Recently, it was my turn to be the Saturday soccer taxi driver. Usually, it's dad's domain, but since I was up and he was still in the land of nod, it seemed only fair to volunteer. With the soccer season now over as you read this, I will not miss wrestling the soccer socks on. Whoever manufactures them has not heard of elasticity. Perhaps they did a good bulk deal price by leaving out the Lycra?. The socks are as flexible as granite. Whether I gather them all together or pull them on bit by bit doesn't seem to make a blind bit of difference. They are reluctant apparel to get into place every Saturday morning. The voice of the sleepy one drifts from the bedroom reminding me that the player of the day trophy proudly brought home after last week's match must go back and that it is also my job to supply the half-time oranges. I look at the fruit bowl. Two dried up arrangements devoid of any juice stare back at me. Nup, no oranges today, lads. I pack a box of crackers and a box of iced animal biscuits. Nothing like oranges but, thinking like a 7-year-old boy looking into the pantry, I figure that option will pass muster at half-time. Instead of me putting the soccer boots on, it's up to my passenger to do it for himself in the car, since we're cutting it fine to make the game on time. Ninety per cent of the journey is taken up with me instructing him in how to loosen laces, pull the boot open wide, and get the process to the point of me only having to tie the bow tightly once we arrive. The next hurdle is finding a place to park. With the 8.30am game still in progress and the 9.15am players all arriving, it's a miracle to find a park where you don't have to do a cross-country run to get there. I refuse to believe we must park a long way away so, with precious minutes to go, I cruise up and down willing a gap to open up. We find one only a 5-minute walk away, except we have less than 5 minutes. My son runs. So do I. He stops running. I ask why, only to be told that I'm embarrassing. We walk briskly so as not to attract undue attention. We slide in just in time, but with dignity intact. It's a fantastic game. The kids play hard (and eat the most they ever have, apparently, at half-time). They win. As we walk back to the car I tell him that I was so glad dad was still asleep this morning. It meant I got to see what great skills he's learnt, since the last time I saw him play was near the beginning of the season. He explains some of the techniques associated with stopping the ball and what to do if there's a player coming straight at you and you want to get the ball off them. I listen intently. The coach has told us that the last game is parents vs children. His dad and I swapped at halftime last year. This year, I say that since he is so good, perhaps dad should play the whole game so the parents' side might have a fighting chance. I tell him how he knows so much now about soccer, compared to me. He is the teacher and I am the student. He is quietly chuffed, but then quickly adds that he really still wants me to play in the game. Of course I will, I say, and note that I must not run in an ungainly, embarrassing manner. I'll have to practise in the meantime, and take his ball skill tips on board.