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.
But it meant everything.

She didn’t even celebrate at first…just turned around a bit stunned, like did that really happen?
And then they were on her.
Swamped.
One of her teammates…this full-grown adult…literally picked her up and spun her around. Like a big sister. Like joy itself.

I stood there on the sideline, trying not to cry like a dickhead.

Proud? Absolutely.
Stoked? Off the charts.
Jumping up and down like a muppet? You bet.

Her moment. Not mine.
But completely mine too, in the quiet.

And it hit me then…how you can wake up broken by your own body and end the day repaired by someone else’s joy.

Her smile…burned into me.

So when I finally went to bed that night, sore still…
I wasn’t disappointed anymore.

Just full.

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