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 retail racks at 10:30 a.m., so maybe that’s easy for me to say. But I was grateful. You notice those who step up. You remember them.

On the pitch, the leaders led. The workers worked. The young ones ran themselves dry trying to keep up. Everyone played their part. That’s the beauty of a team that’s just figuring out it is a team.

And on the sideline, Don stood beside me.

An older gent. Slower to move, but alert — locked in, watching his daughter play. A grown woman now, and out there having the game of her life. I saw it. He saw it.

“My daughter’s playing out there,” he said, turning to me.

“Yes she is, Don,” I replied. “And she’s having a fantastic game.”

A few minutes later, he said it again. Same tone. Same look in his eyes. 

And somewhere between those repetitions, someone gently leaned in and let me know — Don’s living with early-stage dementia.

The words hit softly but settled hard. I looked over at him, and everything shifted. What I’d thought was just proud-dad talk became something deeper — a quiet, determined attempt to hold on. To stay tethered. To speak a truth before it slipped.

Was trying to keep the moment alive...who wouldn’t?

I thought about my own father then. How, as a kid, I’d scan the sidelines. Embarrassed when he cheered. Empty when he didn’t show. I never told him not to come. I’m glad I didn’t.

Because now I get it. I saw it on Don’s face.

There’s something holy about watching your child — young or grown — step into themselves. Be part of something bigger than just them. Something you can be proud of, again and again, even if the memory starts to fray.

I hope I see Don again. I hope he says it again.

“My daughter’s playing out there.”

So I can say, one more time, and mean it more than ever: “Yes she is, Don. And she’s having a fantastic game.”

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