Our adventure began in the most epic of circumstances: one car, three kids, and a Ford Fiesta older than TikTok. Why only one car? Because our other beloved vehicle had been swiped right from under our noses, leaving us with this ancient mechanical marvel. The morning had all the hallmarks of a classic disaster, but we forged ahead with heroic optimism. Three kids, three different venues – it was like organizing the Olympics with a tricycle and a stopwatch.
First, we dropped our daughter off at her dance class, a place where tutus and pirouettes are dead serious business. Then, it was off to my middle son’s home game. Let me set the scene: six degrees Celsius, rain coming down like it was auditioning for The Perfect Storm – ah, the great British December, ideal for a match where the ball spends more time in puddles than in play.
I lingered at my middle son’s game intentionally, pretending that standing there was better than arriving early to my oldest, Jahni’s, warm-up. Why? Because showing up early to watch kids do half-hearted stretches is punishment best reserved for those who double-dip at parties. We rocked up 15 minutes before Jahni’s game – a time slot known in parenting circles as “barely made it” – and I immediately scoped out the opposing team. These boys looked like they’d been bench-pressing farm animals and texting their girlfriends in between sets. We were clearly in for a thrashing.
Jahni was playing striker that day, but instead of channeling legendary Gerd Müller, he decided to audition for a modern ballet. He spun, twirled, and probably thought about interpretative dance – anything but the game. The first goal opportunity? Missed, because my dear son opted for Swan Lake over shooting. My patience snapped. Fortunately, I have three languages to yell in, and I chose Hungarian, ensuring nobody except my kid understood me. This skill is necessary when most folks around you think speaking more than one language is wizardry.
The coach, the self-proclaimed football sage whose main qualification is “watched a lot of Match of the Day,” shouted the same advice from the opposite sideline. Jahni ignored us both equally. It was like watching a mime ignore a megaphone.
Then, miraculously, Jahni scored. Sweet redemption! The game was now 1-1 thanks to a previous goal from the other team, courtesy of a foul that could only have been committed by a player with the attention span of a goldfish. Both teams had their moments of brilliance and periods where the ball seemed to be doing more work than the players, as if it was the only one who didn’t get the memo that this wasn’t a comedy.
The ride home was where things really took a turn. As is tradition, Jahni commenced his mobile app-powered singing lesson, warbling along until the app politely suggested he take a break. I, being the king of efficiency, advised him to switch to his guitar practice. We had a 40-minute journey, and I wasn’t about to let those minutes be wasted on scenery-gazing – not when a future talent show might be at stake.
It was then that Jahni casually mentioned, “Dad, at halftime, the coach said I shouldn’t listen to you.” My brain short-circuited. Did I just hear that? A coach, whose tactical skills peaked in his high school gym class, had told my son, in front of the entire team, not to heed his father’s advice?
“Are you serious?” I asked. Jahni, now tuning his guitar with the casual air of a boy who’d just revealed the world’s most profound secret, nodded.
And this, dear reader, is the crux of the matter. Some coaches aren’t exactly grooming the next Messi. They’re working-class heroes – plumbers, decorators, car mechanics – who lead by yelling and looking tough, but know about as much child psychology as my Ford Fiesta knows about Wi-Fi. They’d rather argue with referees than read a book about coaching. And back at home? They morph into meek “hauspatschen” – men whose biggest fight is for the TV remote before their wives remind them who’s boss.
But here’s the thing: everyone’s got their vision of what kind of man they should be. Some just choose to be lions at the pub and lambs at home, with a pair of slippers and an ego comfortably flattened.
And as for me? Well, I’m just a dad who yells in Hungarian, makes kids play guitar in transit, and wonders how much longer that Fiesta’s got before it also decides it’s had enough of this circus.