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 be helpful. Directing, never demanding. But it still embarrasses me. That voice that kicks in, uninvited, trying to help her navigate the game the way I once had to alone. I worry I’m intruding on her process. I worry she hears it too much. I worry she’s too polite to tell me to pipe down.

I don't know if it bothers her. But I know it bothers me. Because the truth is...I want her to own this. I want her to find the game like I did, without someone else steering the ship. And yet there I am, shouting reminders, reading the play out loud like a solo commentary booth.

Maybe I’m still learning how to let go.

But it’s not just her. It’s the team. The women around her. Most of them older. Most of them playing for fun, for movement, for connection. But they’ve welcomed her in like a little sister. They protect her, pass to her, encourage her. They look out for her when I’m not close enough to do it myself. And that...man...that hits me.

It’s rare, these days, to find a space where people just look after each other without expectation.

There’s pride in that. Big pride.

And yeah...there’s fear too. Fear that something could steal the joy. That it could stop being a game and start being a grind. That she might get hurt...not physically, though that’s always a risk...but emotionally. That the game might one day stop being a playground and become a pressure cooker. That the fun might fade. That she’ll stop laughing during warmups or second guess her place on the pitch.

But then she smiles. She plays. She competes. She grows. And I remember that’s what football has always done when it’s left alone to be what it is. A place where we get to learn who we are by kicking a ball around a field with other people doing the same.

And that’s what I want for her. Not trophies. Not Instagram highlights. Just that. Growth. Connection. The joy of finding your feet. Of making a well timed tackle. Of falling and getting back up. Of being part of something.

Of finding pride...not the kind a parent hands down...but the kind you earn on your own, when no one’s clapping, and you walk off the field knowing you gave a piece of yourself and got something in return.

She’s fifteen. She’s just starting. And already, she’s teaching me how to be quiet, how to let go, how to watch without interfering...even if I don’t always get it right.

Because this isn’t about me. It’s about her.

And from where I sit...just behind the line, just out of the way...it’s beautiful.

And now, as I sit here on the toilet, replaying it all...her tackles, my shouting, her smile, the sound of women cheering each other on...I realise, this too is part of the ritual. Part of the learning. For both of us.

This is where I come to untangle it all. Pride. Embarrassment. Joy. Fear. Hope.

This is a musing from the shitter.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Musings From The Shitter: Volume Twenty Lynx, Laminate, and the Fairest Player There’s a certain smell to school prize givings. Not a bad smell, exactly…more like a composite atmosphere, a curated blend of over-varnished wood floors plus the faint, throat-catching edge of whatever Lynx body spray is trending with 13-year-olds whose relationship to moderation is still in development, all undercut by the inescapable base note of adult unease. You can smell it. The awkwardness. The restlessness. The existential question…unspoken but humming like a low-frequency speaker test…of why exactly are we here ? Because prize givings are, in some ways, elaborate performances of value. Of symbolic order. Of hierarchy dressed in community colours. They attempt to summarise a whole season…or year, or whatever unit of youthful effort the school is measuring…into one night’s worth of laminated certificates, misfiring microphones, and rhythmic clapping that can either feel wildly disproportionate o...
Read more
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,...
Read more
Musings from the Shitter - Volume Twelve  Where  We Leave the Week Football clears my head. Of the week. Of the weeks. Of the goddamn grind. It’s not the game, not really. It’s the battle. The blood and the mud and the silent war inside. A purge. Alone in the thought, but not alone in the fight. Sometimes it comes out as aggression. Ugly, misdirected. I’m no Roy Keane. Christ, I’m not even close. But I get it. I get the snarl in his jaw. The way he needed the scrap to feel alive. Win the battle, win the game. Or at least, win something . Anything. I’ve regretted battles. More than a few. But not all. And if I’m honest, I’d take some of them again. Maybe even hit harder this time. Because football isn't just football. Not for people like us. It’s a goddamn pressure valve. A place to empty out the week. To be someone else for 90 minutes—or no one at all. And I know I’m not the only one. I see it. In the warm-up stares. The short tempers. The quiet nods. We...
Read more