Sunday Morning Rugby
Over the last year Sunday mornings have transformed from late breakfasts, endless cups of tea, and catching up with friends on the internet to steaming breath, the thunder of little feet, and stamping back and forth with hands deep in pockets alongside other similarly challenged parents.
It's called “Tag Rugby”, and our eight year old daughter thinks it's the best thing since sliced bread. She is one of two regular girls in her age group, and surprises us all with her strength, her adherence to instruction, and her resilience. Where so many young boys come trudging from the pitch in tears following a rather exuberant challenge, she has never done so. She might hold her shins while whispering “ouch” in the style of Voldemort, but otherwise she is indestructible.
Luckily the club house serves reasonably priced cups of tea, and is staffed by a gaggle of teenage girls who seem far too bright and cheerful, given that they are giving up their Sunday morning too.
If anybody had told me – before children – that I would be spending my Sunday mornings stood on the touchline of a rugby pitch, watching a little girl mix it with the boys, I would have laughed. If they had said anything about three girls – doing Football, Judo, and Rugby, I'm not sure what my reaction would have been...