A rugby mom is born
Weekend mornings take on a new feeling when your child is on the field.
Saturday mornings in Cape Town seem invariably cold and rainy, but they’ve never stopped me jumping out of bed to go to my weekly Nia class, around which I have built a personal mythology of rescue and happiness. As the week draws to an end, I breathe easier knowing that I will soon be dancing and sweating and generally readjusting the stress-o-meter in time for Monday.

Now, however, the children are at age where they are being picked for teams. I want to turn my face away from the bleak wet day and bury it back in the warm pillow. Saturday mornings no longer belong to dancing and being alone, but to the wild, wet outdoors cowering against miserable gusts of soggy wind.

One part of me grumbles relentlessly and wonders how long before the children wouldn’t really be bothered about whether I was watching the game or not.

The other part of me comes away from these noisy mornings that smell of boerewors rolls, sweat and soggy sports gear feeling like I have gained entry into a club I never knew I wanted to be a member of – a club I am beginning to love.

I don’t come from rugby stock. I don’t know rugby, nor do I care for it. So I stand beside what feels like a field way too big for anyone’s comfort turning my nose up at the instant coffee on sale and thrusting my hands as deep into my pockets as they can go without tearing the pockets apart. I want real coffee. I want to be running or dancing. Instead I am reduced to a shivering nose sticking out of several layers of warm fabric.

We score a try!

But then – after much scuffling backwards and forwards through a mud puddle designed to show up spectacularly against the pristine whiteness of rugby shorts – a ball emerges from what appears to be our side.

A line of boys sprinkle backwards from the other side’s goals. The ball gets run. Gets passed. It’s getting closer to what I now know are our goals. Suddenly I am walking up alongside this inexplicable game, scissoring madly, breathing hard. Our boys score a try. (I only find out when I text a friend that it is a “try” and not a “tri”.)

I leap up with an arm in the air and whoop and turn and grin at no-one in particular, as though I am responsible in some manner for a change on the scoreboard.

Earlier I watched my daughter casually shoot 6 and then 7 goals during her netball matches. We are all surprised that her eye and the hoop have such an easy relationship. She tucks her chin in after each goal, shyly, and finds my eyes. I grin and thumbs-up her.

The sacrifice of my weekly dance routine has turned into no sacrifice at all. Winter sport with the kids gleaming wet and proud in the weak sun after the rain: that’s a club I never thought I’d be happy to venture into the wild wet for.

Do you watch your children’s sports matches? Is it a chore or a pleasure?

Read more by Karen Schimke

Read Parent24’s Comments Policy

24.com publishes all comments posted on articles provided that they adhere to our Comments Policy. Should you wish to report a comment for editorial review, please do so by clicking the 'Report Comment' button to the right of each comment.

Comment on this story
Comments have been closed for this article.

Everything from parties to pre-schools in your area.

Jobs - Find your dream job

Reporting Accountant

Cape Town
Network Finance Professional / Prudential
R310 000.00 - R360 000.00 Per Year

Java Developer

Network IT Recruitment
R450 000.00 - R500 000.00 Per Month

Financial Manager

Communicate Recruitment: Finance 3
R750 000.00 - R800 000.00 Per Month

Property - Find a new home