Aftermath

As a student at one of Brisbane's better private schools I never imagined that 22 years in the future one of my class mates would take to me with a knife leaving me in hospital. A 10cm scar, the removal of something I had come to depend upon and the addition of a rubber band, a screw and some washers to what was once a perfectly functional joint was not how I would have imagined our reunion even if I had known that my contemporary was dreaming of becoming an Orthopedic Surgeon.
Don't take your joints for granted. I lost the use of my left shoulder for 7 weeks and even though I am right handed there were many simple tasks I found almost impossible during that time. Putting on my shoes, reverse parking and cutting up my dinner all spring to mind. Obviously the person who thought it was a good idea to put screw tops on beer bottles had two opposable thumbs and a full complement of working AC joints.
Which brings us to 2010, a year that began with some of my extended family at the Illuka Bowls Club. 2 grandmothers, 2 uncles, 2 aunts, 4 mothers, 2 fathers, 7 brothers, 6 sisters and a boat. The late addition of my niece's fibreglass cast to the mix was surprisingly well received.
February saw a return to normalcy for the family with my return to work. No longer would every meal consist of some random beast being softened in the slow cooker, the lawns could once more be forced into an uneasy truce and the dirty clothes could again start climbing back out of the laundry hamper. Within a week my tenure as Mr Mum was forgotten and I was as bored with working as though I'd never been away. If only our household finances could regain the status quo as smoothly.
By March I was back on the training field albeit gingerly. My team mates danced around me trying hard not to make contact, whether from kinship for me or fealty to the red head I'll let you judge. The suggestion was even floated that I wear a large inner tube around my waist, much like a bumper car, so that I couldn't hit the ground again. Thankfully this delicacy didn't last long and soon I was once again being bumped around like the Pinball Wizard's silver ball. My lack of skill on the field is balanced by a fairly low centre of gravity and a high concentration of testosterone. If I couldn't turn and chase down my more skilled opponents after they'd run round me, and put my body on the line bumping them off the ball I would be absolutely no good to anybody.
The soccer season's infancy of course means nothing like normalcy for our household. Our intimacy with the local club (some might call it an unhealthy obsession) means that we are out of the house a lot. Sign On, equipment sorting, field marking, coaches meetings and multiple training sessions each week make for an extremely chaotic first term. The fact that we now have 1 netballer and 4 soccer  players in the house adds to the drama. How 2 parents are supposed to take 3 children in 3 different directions every Saturday morning is yet to be seen.
So it is with a certain amount of chagrin that I find myself as the manager of my wifes soccer team. Unlike my own team mates who are all Over 35, the red heads team consists of ladies from the ages of 15 to 50 with the accompanying assortment of skills and fitness. Yesterday was their first game and they were easily the better team, fitter, faster, better looking and more skilled. As seems to be the case with all teams I am associated with... they lost...but I look forward to very soon regaling you with stories of their glorious success.