Weekends

There’s no denying it.  I have officially moved from serious weekend sporting participant to weekend warrior.  You can kind of justify it when you’re in your 20s or even early 30s but you know from the reactions of people when you tell them you play on the weekends that the Rubicon has been crossed.  It used to be “That’s cool.  How you guys doing?  You gonna win this year?”  Now it ranges from an empathic “Well you’ve gotta do something to keep fit” through “What the hell are you doing that for?” to complete disinterest, as if feigning any would somehow legitimise my obvious lunacy.

Still, as any of my fellow WWs could tell you, Saturday or Sunday afternoon sport is addictive and virtually impossible to give up.  You’ll know many of us by our somewhat arthritic-looking shuffles in through the office doors on Monday mornings.  If you’re still playing at my age, the only sympathy you’ll get for your agony is from fellow WWs, as the rest of society wrote us off as mad long ago.

On the weekend, we’re a different story.  Many of us are and have been involved in our clubs for many years.  We may have children now working through the age groups and grades, often displaying far greater skill than we ever did.  We may be on the club committee.  We may be firing up the barbecue, our partners may be working in the canteen, and we’ll wear our club colours proudly.  Come game time though, it’s on.  We play hard but fair and any agitation is almost always left on the field.  There’s an esky afterwards, and/or a trip to the pub.  Then we’re on our way home to shower and groan around the house for the evening, using our post-game aches and pains as a legitimate excuse for not helping around the house that evening.

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