I've just returned to the chicken bone littered streets of Oval after a thoroughly good weekend with friends in Devon. Having been outwitted by the local mackerel over a two hour fishing trip on Saturday, where the occasional scaly face could be seen grinning from below the surface of the water as we enthusiastically reeled in each other's lines and got fish hooks caught in our fingers, we headed to a field for some rounders.
I am not a sporty man. If this blog were a film a montage would now kick in of my speccy younger self being hit in the back of the head by footballs, being ground face-first into the mud by a heap of rugby-shirted adolescents and vomiting half way through 100 metre sprints. But despite having hand-eye coordination so poor that earlier civilisations would have burned me as a witch, I quite like mixed-sex rounders. My male friends, aerobically pristine specimens to a lean man, are forced to handicap themselves to the point where the girls can join in, and I can find my level in the slipstream of their chivalry.
As battle raged, two little boys aged about 10 in replica Arsenal and Man U shirts nonchalantly inched their way closer and closer to us. When they couldn't get any nearer without being brained by a bat, a whispered team talk was concluded by the blonde one marching up and asking if he could play, pointing at the other boy (now bashfully kicking the grass) and noting that "he'd like to too".
I was delighted. This could only increase my position in the sporting pecking order. Sadly, it became obvious that Cameron (fastidious blond quiff, polite, confident - will probably be my boss in 15 years) and Alfie (dark, pug-nosed, also well groomed but in a more proto-Club 18-30 way - will probably organise a burglary of my house on Twitter in 5 years time) were significantly superior athletes, a problem highlighted when Alfie ran me out within minutes.
My standing increased marginally with the arrival of James, a hyperactive 7 year old who treated instructions like "run!" by giggling and throwing himself to the floor. This may have been his age or evidence that he is a congenital idiot - having not met a 7 year old since 1988, when I was 7, it's hard to say. A game of football then broke out, where Cameron and Alfie unveiled a range of flicks, tricks and bicycle kicks and James demanded to go in goal, and then announced that he didn't like goal, before deciding to play in goal. My sporty friends played the groovy uncle role to perfection (one of them being asked by Cameron if he played football every day, whether in awe of his skills or in stern disapproval of his training regime we never found out), while I trundled happily around the edge of the action.
It should be noted at this point that their various parents were in a distant play area, seemingly unconcerned by their little treasures joining a dishevelled group of complete strangers. They didn't even bat an eyelid when we started giving them drinks and getting them to lie spreadeagled on the floor (to play sleeping lions, although to a social worker's eye it may have looked like the start of a ritual sacrifice).
It occurred to me that this was a glimpse of the future. I hope that I will be holidaying with the same friends over the coming years, which statistically are going to be bringing sprogs into the equation. It had been fun to hang out with the boys for a couple of hours. But as we packed them off in the direction of their parents and headed to the pub, it was nice to have that a little way off yet.
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