Pit Term

Now the boys are off school, for a month's holiday. We call it "pit-term".

On Saturday, we had family sports day at Thun and Jason's school.

"Dad, will you come?" asked Thun.

"Of course!"

"Good," he said, "bring your tennis shoes, your black shorts and your red Arsenal shirt."

"WHAT?" I gasped. "Do you seriously mean I HAVE TO PLAY?"

Sure enough, there was a team for the fathers, janitors, electricians, and other men associated with the school (In Thai schools, the teachers are women). The other team was from the State Railways of Thailand and suited up in fancy white kits -- they looked like Real Madrid. We had to line up in the tunnel (just like TV), parade onto the concrete playing surface in front of 200 cheering wives and children, and exchange banners. I was a head taller than everybody else.

I started on the bench. Soon I realized: uh-oh, these guys are good--I'm going to make an ass of myself! I was probably the oldest guy in uniform, and I was certainly the crappiest.

Typically Thai, there was dance music and a play-by-play commentary booming out of speakers the size of trucks, and we could barely hear the whistle. The commentator kept groaning oh-hoooaaaah! as we missed goal-scoring opportunities. In the second half, I finally went in. Every time I got the ball, Real Madrid attacked me like a bunch of sharks--they realized I was a weakness. I made one or two good passes but usually I just lost the ball.

Finally, I made a good run and a teammate spotted me and passed the ball to me in a scoring position. All I needed to do was kick the ball past the keeper and into the net! I swung my leg to kick the ball and . . . . . . . . . . . . . . missed the ball!