Musing' From The Shitter

Musings From The Shitter Volume Ten A Day in the Life (Not Quite a Footballer) The day starts like most Saturdays I don’t have to bleed — brain still thinks it's game day, but the body knows it’s been spared. No tightening boots. No taping up aging joints. No captain’s armband like a noose. Just stillness. And for once, peace. Morning kicks off with shovels and buckets — three loads of river sand to line the chicken coop. Glamorous shit. Literal shit, really. But grounding. I’ve learned to trust dirt under fingernails more than medals. It doesn’t lie. Walking the dog, the body feels good. Suspiciously good. Like it knows it won’t be thrown into battle. No barking instructions from my own mouth. No saving teammates from themselves. Just step after step after step. The silence in my head isn’t empty — it’s earned. I pack the Koro Lounge with the essentials: three joints, two Red Bulls, a donut with the texture of old carpet, and an extra lighter because lighters have a way of disappe...

Musings from the Shitter – Volume Nine The  Game We Remember It’s strange, the way some moments put their hand on your shoulder and let you know — this one matters . Not later, not in hindsight, but right there in the thick of it. Amid the chaos. The noise. The mundane logistics of a Sunday. Sunday — daughter’s football day. Senior women’s team. A real mix: teenagers just getting their boots muddy, seasoned women who’ve been through a few battles, and everyone in between. Dannevirke the opposition. Beaten us last time. This time, we took it. It was the kind of day where things didn’t quite go to plan. A kit went missing. Maybe forgotten. Maybe just misplaced in the mess of kid-life and parent-life and barely-holding-it-together life. Panic for a moment. Warehouse run. Substitutes and scrambled shirts. But weirdly — no tension. If anything, it settled the air. Stripped the day back to what mattered. Just women and a ball and a patch of grass. I wasn’t the one sprinting through retai...

  Musings from the Shitter – Volume Eight The Fight Football’s not a hobby. It’s a fucking escape. At our age, just getting to the game feels like a win. Jobs. Kids. Partners. Hangovers. Bills. Vacuum the house. Walk the dog. Argue over breakfast. Then pull on the shirt like it still fits the same way it did ten years ago. You warm up with creaking joints and...quiet prayers. The ball feels heavy. Your lungs betray you after fifteen minutes. But you’re out there. You showed up . And then the whistle goes. And everything else drops away. For 90 minutes, it’s a fight. You chase, hack, scream, bleed, breathe. Your body hates you. Your brain thanks you. You forget the week. Forget the shit. There’s no therapy like it. And it costs less than a counsellor. It’s not about skill anymore...it’s survival. It’s pride. It’s proving something to no one in particular. And when it’s over, you’re wrecked. Bent over. Legs screaming. But smiling...maybe. If the result wen...

Musings from the Shitter – Volume Seven Relief Injured. Sore. Sick. Disappointed. That’s how I woke up on Sunday. Could unpack each of those. Probably should. But I’ll start with this…we drew with Whanganui. Saturday’s game was a proper scrap. Earned. The kind of game that lingers in the body. I drove a carload there…four of us. Talking the whole way. Laughing. Smoking. Telling stories we’ve told before, but still cracking up like they’re fresh. That kind of company that doesn’t need a reason. Just a road and a shared past. And yeah, the game was a good one. But still — Sunday came. And I woke up wrecked. Physically fucked, sure…but there was something else under it. A weight. A dull ache in the chest I couldn’t name. Maybe it was the body talking. Maybe the soul. Maybe both. Then came Sunday afternoon. And I watched my girl 15 years old, playing for the senior women, score her first goal. It was nothing fancy. Right place, right time, right kick. B...

  Musings from the Shitter – Volume Six Wayfaring God bless the office job. It’s a safe place on a Monday — bones aching, memories of Saturday’s game still fresh. With every movement, the body reminds me: I played. Truth is, it reminds me of every mis-kick, every laboured run, every whimper I made out there. Stupid, really. My ten teammates carried me the whole game. I shouldn’t have played. Knew it. Still did. Why? Is it the sense of being important that pushes this? The camaraderie… the feeling of being needed. Valued. And maybe just maybe the fear that when that fades, so will they. These people I share a field with. These men who’ve become my tribe. I know I’m not alone. Most of the team would rather play broken than let the others down. And the lads who rest their injuries? Smarter than me. Stronger too, in the ways that matter. So here I am on a Monday, behind a desk... not on the shitter, where these thoughts usually come  wondering: Is this ...

  Musings from the Shitter – Volume Five The Rush We Still Chase We knew it’d be a scrap. Takaro always is. Not a dirty game. Just history. Pride. Old bones with too much memory. We were short…sick lads, life getting in the way. Happens more often now. Bodies breaking down. Family stuff. Flu bugs. Whatever. They felt it. We felt it. That’s how it goes. 3–2, we lost. It stings. Still does. We don’t play for tables or trophies anymore…but tell that to the part of me that still kicks walls when the whistle goes. There was this moment. Ball loose. Challenge coming. Bodies flying in like it still matters…which it does. Took an arm in the back. Didn’t mean it. Didn’t care. Spun around fast, instinct taking over. Faced him. Eyed him up. That little flicker of let’s go then alive and burning, same as it ever was. You know that buzz? The second your body says fight before your brain catches up? That was it. Didn’t come to anything. Just handbags. Chest puffing. Gro...

  Musings from the Shitter – Volume Four Celebrating the Win, Chasing the Loss I’m shit at celebrating a win. I love the win...the crack of the final whistle, that fizz in your chest like a shot of vodka (my preferred tipple back when I was still part of the drinking class) hitting just right. Relief and joy tangled up in a mess you don’t always want to unpack. But before I even swallow it whole, my mind’s already gone...next week, next game, next fight. Chasing ghosts before the last one’s cold. Maybe it’s the grind. Maybe it’s the fear that if I linger too long, it slips away. Or maybe it’s just how I’m wired...always hungry, restless, never satisfied. But once...I held a win tight. Fifteen...95...Nelson tournament. We were shit. Didn’t matter. I had fun. There was a dance crew nearby...Wellington girls. First time a girl actually looked at me...just the thought, electric and raw. Last game. Tied with Waikato. Penalty shootout to decide who gets relegated. No pre...

  Musings from the Shitter – Volume Three Three Nails This one might not make sense to everyone. That’s okay. It doesn’t have to. Some things aren’t meant to be explained all the way. But I think there’s enough here for anyone reading to find a thread...something to pull on, something to feel. I paint my nails. Three of them. The pointer. The middle. The ring. Baby blue. Hot pink right now. Sometimes black. Why? I started doing it as a way to feel connected. To bridge the space between my football world and the rest of my life. Outside the pitch, I’ve got this wide group of friends. Different backgrounds. Different beats. Different ways of being in the world. Beautifully varied. And I guess the nails were a small way of saying " I see you. I’m with you". A kind of lowkey flag. A soft shout. An ally, if that’s the word. A signal. And let’s be honest...on dark skin, hot pink pops like it’s got something to prove. Baby blue looks like a summer sky on my hands. Ther...

Musings from the Shitter – Volume Two Watching Her Play This one’s different. It’s not about me, not really. It’s about a girl...my girl...newly fifteen, though it all started when she was younger. A kid who suddenly found herself in boots, on a field, in a team. A Ladies Social team, to be specific. A mismatch of ages and skillsets and energy levels and stories...but something solid. Something real. She’s now playing the same game I fell in love with at her age. And I find myself watching from the sideline with a pride that’s hard to describe. Not loud pride. Not the type that yells instructions or corrects positioning. More the quiet kind...the one that sits in your throat and makes your eyes sting a bit when she laughs with her teammates or gets stuck into a tackle that’s probably two weight classes above her. Except...that’s not entirely true. I do yell...I do direct from the sideline. Not aggressively, not critically...just loud enough to carry. Always encouraging, always meant to...

Musings from the Shitter – Volume One Post-match reflections from the only room in the house where I get five minutes to myself I don’t really know what this is. Maybe it’s a brain-dump. Maybe it’s a slow exhale after ninety minutes of chaos and calf cramps. Maybe it’s just me, hiding in the only room in the house with a lock on the door—sitting on the toilet, not necessarily doing anything, just… thinking. Reflecting. Sometimes writing. Welcome to Musings from the Shitter. Every week, after the boots are peeled off and the socks come away like bandages, I disappear. The game is over, the laughter's still echoing from the changing room, and someone’s usually asking where I’ve gone. I’ve gone here. This is my ritual. My chapel. My post-game temple where thoughts are louder than the flush and occasionally more profound than whatever just passed through my colon...though, honestly, that’s up for debate. I play football for Feilding United. That name might not mean much to most people,...