Boys, balls and coffee.

Jacob joined the local football team recently. That’s football with the round ball, not Australian Rules. He is playing SSF with under-6’s. He’s received his ‘kit’ (see I’m learning the lingo already) and after his first session we bought him some football boots and shin guards. Walking from the shop to the car we discovered his father repeatedly taking furtive peeps at Jacob’s new boots, almost reduced to tears with flashbacks to his own youth in the Dutch junior leagues.

Almost all of our neighbours, Lebanese, Greek and Italians alike, played for the same team in their younger days when it was named after an Italian club in honour of it’s origins as a club set up by Italian migrants. Jacob grows visibly taller walking down the street in his new ‘kit’ with each passing ‘good on youse!’ from the locals

Saturday morning, sitting at the pavilion waiting for the capuccino machine in the canteen to warm up it occurs to me that this may well be how we spend our Saturday mornings for the next ten years. A soccer mum. I don’t remember this being part of the plan? Waiting for the one guy who knows how to operate the capuccino machine it also occurs to me that if this is to be the case, this might well be a good time to learn to operate the damn thing myself.

Jacob’s new kit displays a startling amount of white for an item that’s bound to spend a lot of time in contact with wet, muddy earth. The cynic in me suspects the uniform committee hasn’t had much personal experience with laundry. I’ve never been a soaker and I’m not about to start now so while I’m convinced Jacob’ football skills will dazzle, sartorially at least, he may turn out to be a bit of a disapointment on the pitch.