Emergency ball replacement
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Some years ago one of us in the family (and I suspect it was one of the children) received as a Christmas present a set of soft balls in the likeness of those used in a number of sports. I guess they were made in China, whose major market is no doubt the USA, so the balls were predominately from sports more recognized over there. A baseball, an American Football ball (doesn't sound right but what else do you call it?), and, praise be a proper football (a soccer ball). The first two were lost early, probably victimes of teething babies or canines of the pet variety. The football, however, lived long as the central part of the ritual games of hallway soccer.
Sean and I have playes this game for at least four years. In the early days I would thrash him mercilessly to ensure he revelled in my superiority and was not confronted at too early an age by any sign of his father's frailty. This was a power struggle as much as a game but it did let us burn energy without getting muddy or braving the windswept bleakness of the park or the dog turds so liberally spread across the common. As the years passed and Sean's left foot developed both power and accuracy I learned to adopt a more ironic air as we played: this was necessary to compensate for the increasing frequency of my defeats. I had to show that it didn't really matter. Unless he was having a bad day, of course, when I would kick the ball with demonic pace and throw myslef across the hall to defend either the front door or the foot of the stairs, depending on which way I was playing. Victory then was sweet and inevitably accompanied by unattractive crowing.
Anyway. The ball has recently been shedding its plastic outer coating. Finally, it died. There was nothing left to kick that could really be described as 'ball'. No stretching of Platonic essences could allow us to include our lump of stuffing in a limp platic bag within the order of balls. And we needed to play. There was energy to burn and bonding to make or break. We donned coats and hurried to town withe little time to spare before shops closed and weary retail staff cashed up and headed into the chilly night. Reigate has a Dickensian element, honestly.
We got to the sports shop in time and I demanded of the young clerk that he showed me what he had in the way of soft balls. This embarrased my son but I was certain that, as this was a sports shop after all, such statements would not be taken amiss. I was right. We handed over £1.50 and left with a rather bouncy, red, tennis ball-sized replacement. This is about half the size of the ball we have used for the last four years and Sean looked doubtful as he slipped it into his kacket pocket for the walk home but I convinced him that the extra bounce, coupled with the diminished scale, would merely add a further level of skill to proceedings. I was right: in the first match I won all three games quite convincingly. All I need to do now is ration the number of games we play to try to stop Sean improving before he leaves for college in eight years or so.
Sean and I have playes this game for at least four years. In the early days I would thrash him mercilessly to ensure he revelled in my superiority and was not confronted at too early an age by any sign of his father's frailty. This was a power struggle as much as a game but it did let us burn energy without getting muddy or braving the windswept bleakness of the park or the dog turds so liberally spread across the common. As the years passed and Sean's left foot developed both power and accuracy I learned to adopt a more ironic air as we played: this was necessary to compensate for the increasing frequency of my defeats. I had to show that it didn't really matter. Unless he was having a bad day, of course, when I would kick the ball with demonic pace and throw myslef across the hall to defend either the front door or the foot of the stairs, depending on which way I was playing. Victory then was sweet and inevitably accompanied by unattractive crowing.
Anyway. The ball has recently been shedding its plastic outer coating. Finally, it died. There was nothing left to kick that could really be described as 'ball'. No stretching of Platonic essences could allow us to include our lump of stuffing in a limp platic bag within the order of balls. And we needed to play. There was energy to burn and bonding to make or break. We donned coats and hurried to town withe little time to spare before shops closed and weary retail staff cashed up and headed into the chilly night. Reigate has a Dickensian element, honestly.
We got to the sports shop in time and I demanded of the young clerk that he showed me what he had in the way of soft balls. This embarrased my son but I was certain that, as this was a sports shop after all, such statements would not be taken amiss. I was right. We handed over £1.50 and left with a rather bouncy, red, tennis ball-sized replacement. This is about half the size of the ball we have used for the last four years and Sean looked doubtful as he slipped it into his kacket pocket for the walk home but I convinced him that the extra bounce, coupled with the diminished scale, would merely add a further level of skill to proceedings. I was right: in the first match I won all three games quite convincingly. All I need to do now is ration the number of games we play to try to stop Sean improving before he leaves for college in eight years or so.
