Maintaining sanity when your father is an idiot

Well, in fairness, it seemed like a bad idea at the time. It seemed like a bad idea before I even thought I would do it. It seemed like an exceptionally bad idea once I stopped doing and realised how much pain I was in. Yes, I played football again – for the first time in a decade – and the results were predictably lamentable.
 
Ottawacker Jr. had been invited by one of his friends to go for an afternoon kick-around at the RA Centre Dome. Mrs. Ottawacker offered to drop him off and then go and do some shopping – but it seemed like a good chance to hang out with some of the parents of the kids while they were playing. The Anatole had to have a brainwave.
 
“We could play with them and work off a bit of the Christmas excess,” he said.
 
I immediately texted back to say there was no way my hips would let me do it, but I’d watch and heckle from the sidelines. No way I was going to be that stupid. And, in honesty, that was what I intended to do. I told Mrs. Ottawacker I’d drive him in and stay to watch. And I did. And everything was going fine until they started knocking the ball about on the pitch and it kept on being kicked in my direction. So it seemed rude to not kick it back. And then, before you know it, I was playing, and kicking the ball, and making various movements that could have been interpreted as runs. The problem was, I was wearing my glasses and what Ottawacker Jr. calls my “clown shoes” – i.e., my Hoka trainers. In addition, my head knew what I needed to do, but my hips just wouldn’t execute it.
 
And so it came to pass that the ball was hit to me at chest height. And I controlled it on my chest, and the ball dropped to the floor. I could see one of the younger, fitter parents running at me to try and take the ball off me. All I had to do was use the outside of my right foot to knock the ball out of his path, put my foot on the ball to change direction, and then head off in the opposite path. Piece of piss – I used to be able to do it in my sleep. I probably still can – but the problem was I was awake. The ball got as far as the floor – and then so did I, landing on my side, shoulder first. My God it was embarrassing. From then on, once I had been helped to my feet and dusted down, it was simple stuff only. To be honest, it wasn’t too bad – but as we left the dome in the late afternoon sunshine, it was evident that I had done myself a mischief. My shoulder was hurting a lot and my hips had instigated a pain revolt.
 
“Your mum can never know this happened,” I told Ottawacker Jr. “She’d kill me.”
“Okay dad,” he said. Within 10 seconds of opening the front door, he’d spilled the beans.
“You should have seen him mum, he was practically begging to play,” he said. “And he hurt himself.”
 
Mrs. Ottawacker gave me one of her more withering looks, told me I was an idiot, then went and put a heating pad into the microwave for me. I essentially hobbled around for the rest of the day, popping Tylenol and wondering how much of a counter indication it would be to have a lot of wine too.