Saturday Sports Clubs
Pre-children, my first commitment on a Saturday was watching Football Focus at midday. Nowadays, by the time the opening credits are rolling, I am ready for a lie-down.
We have entered the age of weekend sports. On one hand, this is lovely as it gives the boys an opportunity to exercise, socialize and grow as people. On the other, it means we cannot do as we please on a Saturday for the next 10-15 years as this cherished part of the week is now spent making touchline small talk with other flagging parents.
A couple of weeks ago, I learned that going out on a Friday night is now more reckless than an overzealous Sunday session. I fell at the final hurdle of dry January - a friend’s 40th on Friday 26th - and, upon getting home, endured several hours of tequila-flavoured tossing and turning. When I opened my eyes, I briefly considered whether I had spent the previous night getting repeatedly whacked around the head with a saucepan and the sense of dread when the boys clattered into our bedroom at 7 a.m. was palpable.
Louise (who succeeded in completing dry January and occasionally reminds me of this) was bright as a button, laughing and playing with the boys while I massaged my temples and felt riddled with the debilitating non-specific guilt that is symptomatic of every hangover once you are past the age of 25. Was my wife overplaying her cheeriness and high energy levels to prove a point? Surely not.
Our first stop was Joshua’s tennis class at the university - a 9 a.m. start which is exactly one hour too early. We dropped Louise off at the gym on the way and, in the car, she politely informed me that I “stink of beer and need a shower” which was rather demoralizing given I had already had one.
While Joshua is playing tennis, Jacob and I usually kick a ball around or go on an “adventure” which involves me turning into a monster while he runs along benches pretending the floor is lava. On this particular Saturday, I brought the iPad.
As I sat on a plastic chair, chain-munching Airwaves, the tennis coach walked over. Initially, I panicked, thinking he’d clocked my bloodshot eyes and wanted to question me as a parent and man.
“Is Joshua now left-handed?” he asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
He has been doing well at tennis recently (with his right hand), so this was an interesting decision.
“What’s going on, Josh?” I asked, smiling through gritted teeth.
“I just prefer using my left hand now, Daddy.”
“Since when?”
“Now.”
For the next 10 minutes, I watched as he chopped and swiped at thin air. It was extremely stressful.
“Can we go on an adventure now, Daddy?” Jacob asked.
“Maybe later.”
With a few minutes of the class left, Joshua McEnroe dashed out to the toilet and returned wearing only one shoe.
“Where’s the other one, buddy?”
He just laughed.
As he was attempting to participate in the final rallies using his left hand while slipping around on his sock-clad left foot, Jacob and I did some scouring, eventually finding the missing trainer in the room next door where a Legs Bums and Tums class was in full swing. Among the 20+ women in the class, I noticed a solitary middle-aged man and questioned his motives. However, given I was suspiciously shuffling around the perimeter while frowning and carrying a child’s shoe, I was in no position to judge.
Eventually, back home, I popped a Panadol, put the kettle on and took a deep breath.
“You’ve left my water bottle at tennis, Daddy,” Joshua said.
I considered writing it off as a loss, but my recent water bottle retention rate is very poor, so I bundled the boys back into the car and drove back to the university. This was, it turned out, a good move as I’d also left Joshua’s new coat stuffed underneath my plastic chair. I picked the items up, gave the tennis coach a flat smile and, attempting a callback from the class, made a joke about having two left hands. It didn't really make sense and deservedly got no laugh.
When we got home, Louise had returned from the gym.
“Oh, you guys are later than usual?”
“Daddy forgot everything,” Jacob said.
Cheers, son.
Following the faff, Jacob and I had approximately four minutes to shove some beans on toast down our throats before setting off for his football class at Goals. The traffic on Kirkstall Road was typically vile and, arriving with the session already underway, I was flustered. As I encouraged Jacob to join in with Scarecrow Tig, a fashionable Dad, visibly unflustered, ambled over.
“So, how’s your son finding it, mate?”
“Fine, thanks,” I said while weighing up the horrors of having to maintain a conversation with a stranger for the next fifty-five minutes. He was clearly a nice man, but I just couldn’t do it. Not today. I spotted an escape route.
“Um, where did you get that latte, mate?”
I returned with my coffee and stood a few feet away from the sociable Dad for the rest of the session, safely alone with my thoughts. Thankfully, Jacob enjoyed the session and left clutching a shiny Kylian Mbappe sticker while proudly informing me that he had scored seventy thousand goals, a statistic I cannot verify.
The final challenge of a chastening day was a 6th birthday party at Kid’s Clubhouse. I will accept that Louise does the heavy lifting with many aspects of parenting but, when it comes to navigating soft play parties, there are significant discrepancies. Not that I’m keeping count, of course.
There were no spots outside, so I hurriedly parked up in a nearby residential area, braced myself, and entered the chaos. Now we know most of the school parents, kids’ parties aren’t so bad but, if I'm honest, there are still places I would rather spend a hungover Saturday afternoon; alone in a dark room, listening to whale noises, is just one example.
I treated myself to a third latte of the day, sat down with some dads and settled into a comfortable discussion about Ipswich Town’s lack of strength in depth. With my headache ceasing, I felt I was finally re-entering the land of the living when my phone vibrated. It was a photo message from Louise: the unmistakable image of our Dacia Sendero clumsily slung on yellow lines outside someone’s house.
“What are you playing at, Andy?”
She has eyes and ears everywhere, I cannot get away with a thing.
I spent the remainder of the party fretting about the possibility of a parking ticket and/or a brick through the windscreen which seemed a fitting end to one of the longest days of my life.
A couple of days ago, my mate asked if I fancied a pint this Friday.
“Absolutely not, don’t be so ridiculous,” I told him. “How about Sunday?"
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