It's a Dad's Life:One of these days the kids are going to get me into serious trouble, not an embarrassing but somewhat interesting or mildly amusing situation, but a real tricky spot.
Of all the columns I have written here, the one that got the most reaction involved minor verbals with a table of elderly ladies after the monsters had provoked a reaction in a fast- food restaurant. The reaction was not favourable, most people presuming I let my children clamber roughshod over fellow diners and ignore any pleas for compassion so that three-piece chicken dinners can be enjoyed in relative comfort. There is some truth in that rumour but it is not entirely accurate. As a parent I am a little soft, but I also know the irritation of being harassed by children I have no blood responsibility for. Yet I have never threatened to "batter" one, which is what was suggested to the Elder last week.
We had been watching a friend play his first over-35s soccer match. A cracking game and a bit of a family affair on the sideline, due to the average age of those involved. Afterwards, as both teams are getting changed on either side of the pitch, I realise the Elder has gone missing and have a quick look around. I see her and her friend creeping like cats towards the opposition's gear bags, grabbing a pair of socks and running. They're nabbed before they've gone a yard, given a friendly warning and sent on their way.
They think they are being hilarious; they're not. Before they can wind anyone else up, I set off after them. Not fast enough, as they have returned to the same guy's bag and legged it with the same pair of socks. This time his friend steps in. He's a sensitive looking fellow who decides to place the pilfering pair on the path to righteousness.
Grabbing the socks back, he advises them, "P**s off yiz little f***kers. Do that again and I'll batter yiz both!" The fist shakes and the rotten teeth are bared. The kids run, slightly ashen.
They get to me within 30 yards, as I'm already halfway across the pitch.
I check they're okay and send them on to our party. Then, before I know it, my legs have taken me into enemy camp. Hard man has been expounding on his childcare theories. "Now that's how you speak to children, little bastards." Suddenly he notices me standing there and the head drops. Everyone else is also paying a lot of attention to their shoelaces.
My big finger comes up and starts jabbing in the air above hard man's head.
It has a life of its own; it won't stop jabbing. "That's not how you speak to kids. Not unless you're a . . . a . . . pig. And you are a . . . a . . . pig." I know. Wildean put down. Turn on tail and walk away, only to hear, "Then why don't you get them under bleedin' control?" This time, when I look around, the whole team is watching but hard man, who I presume spoke, has gone back to eyeballing the earth. Index finger wants to jab but I hold it down. "You're scum," I tell him, and then I'm gone.
I went fast because there was violence in the air. Here was someone you could smell it off, someone who was used to hitting and kicking and being hit and kicked in return. Someone who thought that's an okay way to behave.
Worse than that, there was something coming up in me that might have welcomed it. My body was wired tight, this guy had got to me.
It can happen that fast. A rush of blood to the head, harsh words spoken, a flurry of digs and hello officer. Yet, there is something fundamentally flawed in speaking to anyone the way that guy did, whether the object of their ire is five or 50. The question is, should you engage or walk away?
