Winter Sports

And the winter sports season is upon us. Many parents might now be lamenting the idea of signing their youngsters up for outdoor activities as they chauffer kids around to various weekly practices and brave the inclement weather on the sidelines each weekend.

This is not helped by the fact the rugby player himself is no longer enthused by the game and has, many a time, moaned about throwing in the towel only to change his mind when the chocolates are handed out at full-time.

He likes the camaraderie of the team too. He spends an awful lot of time talking with his mates at the back of the pack but, as I pointed out to his father, it could be worse - at least he’s not sitting picking daisies.

These days coaches are fair to each player making sure they all get a turn with the ball, even setting up tries. There’s nothing like scoring a try, followed by a round of applause to boost one’s self esteem and interest for the game. (Parents must always make sure they’re watching here for that is the first direction the try-scorer will look) Then there’s the subsequent trips to McDonalds which some sports-mad parents have thrown in as motivation.

These methods can either set the child up for disappointment by providing a false hope or it might be the positive reinforcement required to achieve more of the same.

Our boy still prefers to talk.

I must admit I think it’s me who bemoans the practices the most. The idea of dragging everyone out of the warm cosy house to return to it cold and dark and having to start dinner from scratch with everyone nagging at me for various reasons, holds zero appeal.

We always return cold, wet and muddy ourselves: Last year when the twins were two they took off to play a safe distance away while I stayed on the sideline, determined to focus on Master Five’s game. There was much merriment coming from their direction and after a while I became aware of their shouting about being stuck in the mud. Thinking it was part of their imaginary game I humoured them and went along with it until ten minutes later I realised they actually hadn’t moved an inch.

Arriving at the scene I noted they were indeed stuck in a mud pit up to the tops of their gumboots.

Not dressed for the occasion, I balanced on the edge of the pit and reached one arm into the centre to pull out the first child. For the sake of a good yarn I could say here that I overbalanced and fell face-first into the mud but, for once, I was more co-ordinated than that.

After one final pull and a suctioning/squelching sound, out plopped twin one leaving their gum boots upright in the centre of the mudpit. By the time I’d extracted twin two they were both standing in their socks with their gumboots still stuck in the middle.

Giving up on remaining clean, I walked (skidded) into the centre and plucked out their boots, sending splatters of mud up in my face. It was then I became aware of a round of applause amidst “Hurrays” and noted we’d had an audience.

I must say if that’s what positive reinforcement feels like it did not make we want to do a repeater. However, I considered taking a bow but then couldn’t be bothered as I went in search of a tap.

After practice Master Five was not happy. My inattention had, of course, not gone unnoticed and it was all his bother and sister’s fault.

These days they still make him mad by running onto the field and trying to join in the game. I suppose, at least, I should be pleased they all want to play the same sport. One lot of chauffering and sliding around in mud is enough for this non-winter sports fan.

Watching their dad play rugby.