I’ve just been to my first ever professional football match. I added in the qualifying “professional”, because it wouldn’t be fair to say I’ve never been to any football match. I just haven’t been to any in which all the players are over the age of 14 and unrelated to me.
My father-in-law is making Hull City supporters out of my sons, having himself been a fan for literally decades. He got four tickets for the pre-season friendly against Liverpool, and I surprised the family by saying that instead of Husband going along to represent the middle generation, I’d like to go. I thought it was a bit of a shame to get to the age of 46 without ever having seen a football match. In my defence, I nearly got to a match once. In 1990, I went with an Arsenal-supporting boyfriend to an Arsenal v. Tottenham game, but being a local derby, it was totally sold out, and we didn’t get in. (“… local derby…” Impressed by the football lingo there?) After a mere 21 years, I decided it was time to have another try.
I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. I really did. Hull City won 3 – 0. A good result against the big guns of Liverpool. Yay, Tigers. Oh no. Hang on. That’s in America that we say Yay, isn’t it? What do we say here? Jolly good show, Tigers. No. That’s not quite right. Um…
Anyway, it was a good result, and a deserved one. The Tigers did play very well. Especially number 2. Whoever that was. Well done, Number 2. You were very fast and sprinty. If you keep it up, I’m sure you’ll be number 1 before too much longer. The goalie played very well too, though he didn’t control his defenders very tightly. He didn’t communicate much with the back four. That is my considered opinion of his performance. (It’s also what the man in the seat behind me said to his friend.)
The event was rather more intimate than I’d imagined. There were nearly 21,000 people there. That's a lot of people, but it didn’t feel as overwhelming as I'd expected. From watching football on tv, I thought the pitch and players would seem distant, but I felt close to the action. I confess that the pitch seemed smaller than on tv. I suppose they have to have the cameras an awfully long way up, which makes the game look smaller and more distant than it is to the spectators, even those of us in row DD. In all, it felt rather less intimidating and more… what’s the word?... more domestic than I’d anticipated.
If there was any disappointment on my part, it was that the Hull City fans were a little subdued. The Liverpool fans were in good voice, chanting and singing. The Hull fans gave encouragement by way of the odd roar or burst of applause, but they were relatively quiet, even though their team was triumphing. It felt rather over-polite, and they didn’t sing at all. Compared to the Liverpool fans, they were, frankly, a bit girlie. According to my father-in-law, that was because it was a friendly, and at home. Apparently Hull City supporters are known for their singing at away matches. I’ll have to go to one of those next. I suppose I was secretly hoping for the opportunity to find my inner raucous shouting self, but that will have to wait for another time.
It was something of a grand afternoon out, what with driving across the beautiful Yorkshire wolds to get there, and sitting in slow-moving traffic through Hull with Grandad pointing out landmarks from his youth.
“My school used to be right in the middle of that roundabout. Before the roundabout was there, of course. That’s where I used to jump on the bus. They were open at the back, with a pole to grab on to. Saved me 10 minutes, catching it as it came round the corner instead of going down to the bus station. Meant I could go home for lunch. They used to tell me I’d meet my fate, jumping on those buses as they went round that corner, but I’m still here… I used to go to the football with my big cousin. I was probably about your age, 10-yo. I always stood in those days. Never had a seat. You’d get to the front, if you were small. People let you through so you could see.”
I looked round, and saw the boys on the back seat looking out of the car window as we crawled along. Good for you, Grandad, for being more interesting than a DS and an iPod. And good for you, Hull City, for getting the season off to a cracking start.
Showing posts with label soccer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soccer. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tales from the soccer pitch
I had my first experience of attending a girls’ Under 8 soccer match tonight. Husband has been more involved in 7-yo’s soccer exploits to date, and has even got himself appointed Assistant Coach to the team. But tonight he was at a meeting, so it fell to me to take her.
This was a make-up game. No, no… you’re on the wrong track. Not that kind of make-up. Just because it’s girls’ soccer, you’re thinking lipstick and mascara, aren’t you? It was a make-up game because a previous game in the season was cancelled for bad weather. I must admit I have a problem with the whole make-up game thing. I have a problem with the whole competitive league thing. Actually, it really annoys the pants off me. I think, on reflection, that it annoys me more than anything else in my life annoys me, at this point in time. It annoys me as much as it did when I wrote this post about it. I’ve hardly been able to think about it since, because my pants just fly off in annoyance if I do. Which is why the whole 7-yo soccer operation has been Husband’s responsibility. He keeps his pants on much better.
Anyway, tonight there was a make-up game, and I went along to watch. And my heart totally melted, and my pants stayed right on, because I tell ya, four-a-side soccer played by seven-year-old girls, is stomach-mushingly adorable. I’m going to give you the highlights.
1) 7-yo’s team all sport a purple clip-on hair braid. I have no idea why. Team identity or something.
2) 7-yo was discussing her soccer career with me in the car on the way, and declared she didn’t really know whether she was better at defence or soffence, and what did I think. I said I thought it was too early to say, but soffence sounded like it might be her thing. (And then I had to spoil it by saying that most people pronounce it ‘offence’ – I hate that part of being a mum.)
3) At half-time, our coach told the team “now remember, we switch ends, so show me which goal we’re aiming at from now on”, and the two players who were concentrating pointed to the wrong goal. The other two were engrossed in a conversation about their snack and drink. (This is the kind of thing that feeds my resistance to the whole idea of a competitive league.)
4) The score was 1-1. A third goal was scored by the opposition, but no-one knew whether it counted or not. One of their team had fallen over and had a sore finger. She was showing it to the ref, when one of the other players ran up to the goal with the ball and scored. No-one knew whether the ref had stopped play for the examination of the sore finger, or not. No ruling was made at the time, and so when it came to the end of the game, no-one knew what the final score was. (Are you beginning to share my reservations about the whole competitive league thing?)
5) The goalie on the other team, in a bored moment, twizzled her foot around in the goal netting and got stuck, and had to be untangled.
6) There was a lovely moment when I saw 7-yo skipping down the outfield. It brought a whole new meaning to fancy footwork.
7) 7-yo missed a crucial half minute or so, somewhere in the second half, because she was undoing her pony tail, taking her hairband off, and removing the purple braid. I could tell that she spent the next few minutes trying out the best running action for making her loosened hair swing from side to side. Luckily, there was no evidence that this distraction had any adverse impact on her soccer skills or the outcome of the game.
I was really proud of my sons, who came along to watch the game and cheer 7-yo on. I thanked them and told them I was proud, at which 7-yo pointed out that she had often been to watch their games. She’s right, of course. Over the years she has been lugged along to many matches, with a backpack full of Polly Pockets and colouring books, and has sat patiently on the sidelines or in the car if it’s cold or windy.The difference is, she doesn’t have the choice on these occasions; the boys do. Such is the lot of the youngest sibling. 10-yo entered into the spirit of the game, and called out instructions which, in the context, were decidedly ambitious: “pass the ball, pass the ball!” 13-yo has inherited more of his mother’s laconic detachment as a spectator, but understands the value of encouragement, and told 7-yo “good job” in an understated kind of way at half-time.
Ah, see how all my annoyance has drifted away. Maybe I could get myself nominated Assistant Assistant Coach. Or Snack Manager. Or Team Nurse. I think I’m going to need an excuse to go along to a few more of these matches. Do you think they have seven-year-old soccer in heaven?
.
This was a make-up game. No, no… you’re on the wrong track. Not that kind of make-up. Just because it’s girls’ soccer, you’re thinking lipstick and mascara, aren’t you? It was a make-up game because a previous game in the season was cancelled for bad weather. I must admit I have a problem with the whole make-up game thing. I have a problem with the whole competitive league thing. Actually, it really annoys the pants off me. I think, on reflection, that it annoys me more than anything else in my life annoys me, at this point in time. It annoys me as much as it did when I wrote this post about it. I’ve hardly been able to think about it since, because my pants just fly off in annoyance if I do. Which is why the whole 7-yo soccer operation has been Husband’s responsibility. He keeps his pants on much better.
Anyway, tonight there was a make-up game, and I went along to watch. And my heart totally melted, and my pants stayed right on, because I tell ya, four-a-side soccer played by seven-year-old girls, is stomach-mushingly adorable. I’m going to give you the highlights.
1) 7-yo’s team all sport a purple clip-on hair braid. I have no idea why. Team identity or something.
2) 7-yo was discussing her soccer career with me in the car on the way, and declared she didn’t really know whether she was better at defence or soffence, and what did I think. I said I thought it was too early to say, but soffence sounded like it might be her thing. (And then I had to spoil it by saying that most people pronounce it ‘offence’ – I hate that part of being a mum.)
3) At half-time, our coach told the team “now remember, we switch ends, so show me which goal we’re aiming at from now on”, and the two players who were concentrating pointed to the wrong goal. The other two were engrossed in a conversation about their snack and drink. (This is the kind of thing that feeds my resistance to the whole idea of a competitive league.)
4) The score was 1-1. A third goal was scored by the opposition, but no-one knew whether it counted or not. One of their team had fallen over and had a sore finger. She was showing it to the ref, when one of the other players ran up to the goal with the ball and scored. No-one knew whether the ref had stopped play for the examination of the sore finger, or not. No ruling was made at the time, and so when it came to the end of the game, no-one knew what the final score was. (Are you beginning to share my reservations about the whole competitive league thing?)
5) The goalie on the other team, in a bored moment, twizzled her foot around in the goal netting and got stuck, and had to be untangled.
6) There was a lovely moment when I saw 7-yo skipping down the outfield. It brought a whole new meaning to fancy footwork.
7) 7-yo missed a crucial half minute or so, somewhere in the second half, because she was undoing her pony tail, taking her hairband off, and removing the purple braid. I could tell that she spent the next few minutes trying out the best running action for making her loosened hair swing from side to side. Luckily, there was no evidence that this distraction had any adverse impact on her soccer skills or the outcome of the game.
I was really proud of my sons, who came along to watch the game and cheer 7-yo on. I thanked them and told them I was proud, at which 7-yo pointed out that she had often been to watch their games. She’s right, of course. Over the years she has been lugged along to many matches, with a backpack full of Polly Pockets and colouring books, and has sat patiently on the sidelines or in the car if it’s cold or windy.The difference is, she doesn’t have the choice on these occasions; the boys do. Such is the lot of the youngest sibling. 10-yo entered into the spirit of the game, and called out instructions which, in the context, were decidedly ambitious: “pass the ball, pass the ball!” 13-yo has inherited more of his mother’s laconic detachment as a spectator, but understands the value of encouragement, and told 7-yo “good job” in an understated kind of way at half-time.
Ah, see how all my annoyance has drifted away. Maybe I could get myself nominated Assistant Assistant Coach. Or Snack Manager. Or Team Nurse. I think I’m going to need an excuse to go along to a few more of these matches. Do you think they have seven-year-old soccer in heaven?
.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Cuteness abounds
Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life. I’ve seen my own newborn babies, (funny how your own are so gorgeous, whereas other peoples'...). I’ve seen baby rabbits, and ducklings. Our next door neighbour has just got a 9-week old puppy. That’s fairly darn cute. It’s a cockerpoo (cocker spaniel poodle cross). Is that just in America that they come up with these clever cross-breed names, or are they doing that in England too?
Anyway, what else have I seen that’s cute? Nativity plays - I’ve watched a few of those. Once my two boys, aged about 1 and 4, fell asleep arm in arm. Naked toddlers wearing wellies - they’re pretty cute. Small children trying to say long words: hospital, or ridiculous, for example. Small children using grown up words for body parts. Kids wearing brand-new school uniform on their first day. Baby socks. The first unbelievably small sleepsuits that my babies wore when they were born (which, yes, I’ve kept). Their early scrawly sentences, written in mixed lower and upper case letters, with illustrations of gangly people with smiley faces.
Yup. It’s fair to say that I’ve witnessed plenty of cute things in my life. I’ve even embraced the word ‘cute’, and use it instead of the word ‘sweet’. But… nothing prepared me for seeing a 7 year old girl in soccer gear. My 7 year old girl in soccer gear. Yes, 7-yo has taken up soccer, and as if soccer shorts aren’t cute enough on a 7 year old bottom, she also wears knee-high socks, diminutive shin pads, and petite cleats. ('Cleats' translates as 'soccer boots', or I’d better say 'football boots', else someone will correct me). Pink and black cleats! Heaven. Even for someone like me, who so staunchly resists the infiltration of pink into all aspects of a girl’s life.
It was that opening sentence “Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life” that first made me see myself as a country singer. By the time I’d got to the end of that paragraph, I was imagining Iota on a high stool, legs crossed, strumming her guitar wistfully, crooning into a microphone, in a smoky bar in a small cowboy town some place. I was trying out rhyme schemes with ‘cute’ (‘my guitar is my lute’, ‘I also play the flute’, ‘I have a pet newt’, ‘I’m in my birthday suit’), and before I knew it, I’d written a ballad.
A Ballad to my Daughter Playing Soccer
Well m' neighbor’s just got hisself a small cockerpoo
His front lawn is covered with a load of doo-doo
That mutt is so adorable, half poodle half cocker,
But the puppy ain’t a patch on my li’l girl playing soccer.
I’ve been to Hardy’s birthplace, a-down there in Dorset,
I’ll think of a rhyme here, though I might have to force it,
Twee cottage with a thatched roof, twee door with cute knocker
But no, nothing near so cute as my gal playing soccer.
A thing of beauty’s a joy forever, said ol’ Johnnie Keats
He was thinking of m’ daughter, in her size 2 pink cleats.
I’ll be standing on the sidelines, ‘mongst fat moms and thin dads,
Watching her run by, in her sweet li’l shin pads.
In your soccer clothes, My Honey-pie, you look awful purty
And I’ll take out an opponent if she tackles you dirty,
If I were an Aussie, I’d sure say you were beaut
But I’m here in America, so I’ll just call you cute.
I’m off to Starbucks right now, for my tall decaf mocha*
I hope I don’t end my days in Davy Jones’s locker
Ah’m just an ol’ sentimental and somewhat agin’ rocker
Who died of a cute attack, when her daughter dressed for soccer.
* I know, I know. Mocha and soccer don't rhyme, unless you have a British accent. How about 'So please don't be a scoffer, and please don't be a mocker'? Happy now?
Anyway, what else have I seen that’s cute? Nativity plays - I’ve watched a few of those. Once my two boys, aged about 1 and 4, fell asleep arm in arm. Naked toddlers wearing wellies - they’re pretty cute. Small children trying to say long words: hospital, or ridiculous, for example. Small children using grown up words for body parts. Kids wearing brand-new school uniform on their first day. Baby socks. The first unbelievably small sleepsuits that my babies wore when they were born (which, yes, I’ve kept). Their early scrawly sentences, written in mixed lower and upper case letters, with illustrations of gangly people with smiley faces.
Yup. It’s fair to say that I’ve witnessed plenty of cute things in my life. I’ve even embraced the word ‘cute’, and use it instead of the word ‘sweet’. But… nothing prepared me for seeing a 7 year old girl in soccer gear. My 7 year old girl in soccer gear. Yes, 7-yo has taken up soccer, and as if soccer shorts aren’t cute enough on a 7 year old bottom, she also wears knee-high socks, diminutive shin pads, and petite cleats. ('Cleats' translates as 'soccer boots', or I’d better say 'football boots', else someone will correct me). Pink and black cleats! Heaven. Even for someone like me, who so staunchly resists the infiltration of pink into all aspects of a girl’s life.
It was that opening sentence “Well, I’ve seen some cute things in my life” that first made me see myself as a country singer. By the time I’d got to the end of that paragraph, I was imagining Iota on a high stool, legs crossed, strumming her guitar wistfully, crooning into a microphone, in a smoky bar in a small cowboy town some place. I was trying out rhyme schemes with ‘cute’ (‘my guitar is my lute’, ‘I also play the flute’, ‘I have a pet newt’, ‘I’m in my birthday suit’), and before I knew it, I’d written a ballad.
A Ballad to my Daughter Playing Soccer
Well m' neighbor’s just got hisself a small cockerpoo
His front lawn is covered with a load of doo-doo
That mutt is so adorable, half poodle half cocker,
But the puppy ain’t a patch on my li’l girl playing soccer.
I’ve been to Hardy’s birthplace, a-down there in Dorset,
I’ll think of a rhyme here, though I might have to force it,
Twee cottage with a thatched roof, twee door with cute knocker
But no, nothing near so cute as my gal playing soccer.
A thing of beauty’s a joy forever, said ol’ Johnnie Keats
He was thinking of m’ daughter, in her size 2 pink cleats.
I’ll be standing on the sidelines, ‘mongst fat moms and thin dads,
Watching her run by, in her sweet li’l shin pads.
In your soccer clothes, My Honey-pie, you look awful purty
And I’ll take out an opponent if she tackles you dirty,
If I were an Aussie, I’d sure say you were beaut
But I’m here in America, so I’ll just call you cute.
I’m off to Starbucks right now, for my tall decaf mocha*
I hope I don’t end my days in Davy Jones’s locker
Ah’m just an ol’ sentimental and somewhat agin’ rocker
Who died of a cute attack, when her daughter dressed for soccer.
* I know, I know. Mocha and soccer don't rhyme, unless you have a British accent. How about 'So please don't be a scoffer, and please don't be a mocker'? Happy now?
Friday, October 12, 2007
Siblings and Soccer II
The conversation between my two children on the subject of soccer (see previous post) reminds me of the fine soccer education I received from my own big brother. He was watching England v Japan. I know this because when England scored, he punched his fists into the air and shouted “TOSHAK!”. I asked him what that meant and he replied “It’s Japanese for GOAL!”. And thus it was that I went through many years of childhood, and indeed adulthood, thinking that I knew three words of Japanese: mitsu bishi meaning three lozenges (look at the logo), and toshak meaning goal.
I now know that John Toshack is a Welsh football player (so actually it must have been Wales v Japan), whose career was at its peak in the 1970s. He was then manager of four Spanish teams, and (according to Wikipedia) amused Spanish audiences during press conferences with his use of English stock phrases translated literally into Spanish. "Hay más posibilidades de ver a un cerdo volando por encima del Bernabéu" (you're more likely to see a pig flying over the Bernabéu). "La liga es el pan y la mantequilla y la nata es la copa del rey" (the league is the bread and butter and the cup is the cream). John Toshack, I’m glad you have your linguistic struggles too. It’s a bond between us. And you do have a marvellously expressive surname. It ought to be a shout of triumph in some language or other, even if it isn’t. In another life, I’d be married to you, and be called Mrs Toshack. I think I’d persuade you to change our name by deed poll so that we spelt it Toshack! Mr and Mrs Toshack! I like that.
I’m a bit worried that mitsu bishi doesn’t mean three lozenges. It was my big brother’s best friend who told me that.
I now know that John Toshack is a Welsh football player (so actually it must have been Wales v Japan), whose career was at its peak in the 1970s. He was then manager of four Spanish teams, and (according to Wikipedia) amused Spanish audiences during press conferences with his use of English stock phrases translated literally into Spanish. "Hay más posibilidades de ver a un cerdo volando por encima del Bernabéu" (you're more likely to see a pig flying over the Bernabéu). "La liga es el pan y la mantequilla y la nata es la copa del rey" (the league is the bread and butter and the cup is the cream). John Toshack, I’m glad you have your linguistic struggles too. It’s a bond between us. And you do have a marvellously expressive surname. It ought to be a shout of triumph in some language or other, even if it isn’t. In another life, I’d be married to you, and be called Mrs Toshack. I think I’d persuade you to change our name by deed poll so that we spelt it Toshack! Mr and Mrs Toshack! I like that.
I’m a bit worried that mitsu bishi doesn’t mean three lozenges. It was my big brother’s best friend who told me that.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Siblings and soccer
If you have more than one child, occasionally you are privy to the conversations they have between themselves without your presence. Most of these you miss, of course, but occasionally you can eavesdrop. Eavesdropping is, as we all know, a bad thing, but maternal eavesdropping, as any mother will tell you, doesn’t count.
This particular conversation took place in the sitting room, which, conveniently, is within earshot of the desk where the computer is. I could therefore type the conversation as it happened, so I know I got it down verbatim. 10-yo was watching soccer on tv (hence the curtailed ability to utter a sentence longer than three words). The boy lives, breathes, thinks, eats soccer (just to set the scene for you). The conversation went like this:
3-yo: Why do soccer matches be silly? [blimey, 3-yo, talk about going for the jugular]
10-yo: They’re not silly.
3-yo: Why are they?
10-yo: They’re not.
3-yo: Oh. [long pause] Are they good or bad?
10-yo: They’re good.
3-yo: Oh. [long pause] Where did soccer matches came from?
10-yo: Different places.
3-yo: What do you do when you play a soccer match?
10-yo: You try to score a goal.
3-yo: Why do they have matching costumes all the same? [honing in now on the more important aspects of the sport]
10-yo: They have to.
I’m so glad that 3-yo has the opportunity for such a comprehensive education concerning the beautiful game. After all, there won’t be many boys in her life with whom she will be able to use the opening gambit “Why do soccer matches be silly?”. Not if she’s got any sense.
This particular conversation took place in the sitting room, which, conveniently, is within earshot of the desk where the computer is. I could therefore type the conversation as it happened, so I know I got it down verbatim. 10-yo was watching soccer on tv (hence the curtailed ability to utter a sentence longer than three words). The boy lives, breathes, thinks, eats soccer (just to set the scene for you). The conversation went like this:
3-yo: Why do soccer matches be silly? [blimey, 3-yo, talk about going for the jugular]
10-yo: They’re not silly.
3-yo: Why are they?
10-yo: They’re not.
3-yo: Oh. [long pause] Are they good or bad?
10-yo: They’re good.
3-yo: Oh. [long pause] Where did soccer matches came from?
10-yo: Different places.
3-yo: What do you do when you play a soccer match?
10-yo: You try to score a goal.
3-yo: Why do they have matching costumes all the same? [honing in now on the more important aspects of the sport]
10-yo: They have to.
I’m so glad that 3-yo has the opportunity for such a comprehensive education concerning the beautiful game. After all, there won’t be many boys in her life with whom she will be able to use the opening gambit “Why do soccer matches be silly?”. Not if she’s got any sense.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Hurrying along
Words. They’re lovely things aren’t they?
When I lived in England, I would hurry. Or hurry up. Then I moved to Scotland and found myself scooting. “I must scoot”, I would say. I would scoot to the Co-op, which Husband and I called the Coop (we’re so amusing). Scooting to the Coop had a very pleasing feel to it. Scooting to school felt good too. It was for occasions such as these that school English lessons taught me the word alliteration.
Now in America, I hustle. I like that word. Hustle, hustled, hustling, hustle. It even sounds like what it means (there’s a word for that too, but I’m not going to use it – one word about words is enough showing off).
You’ve no idea what hustling can do for morale. Watching my son play soccer, for example, I hear another mom shout “Come on boys, half-time’s over. Let’s hustle.” She sees seven small boys in orange shirts and black shorts, who need encouraging into a second half. I see these people. For a short moment, I am aware of these facts: although I drove to the soccer ground in a Honda minivan in which the cd selection was Children’s Ultimate Party Album, Barney's It’s a Great Day for Learning, and Amy Grant’s Home for Christmas, and although the differential between my waist and hips isn’t anywhere near as large as it used to be, and although the extent of my interaction with young men these days is to yell “good jahb, CJ” at the goalie, deep down, deep down, I am oozing such ice cold urban chic that it is amazing my extremities haven’t frozen off, even though it’s in the 80's this afternoon and there’s no shade at the soccer ground. In another life, (I’m accumulating a worryingly large collection of these) I know I could be shoulder to shoulder with Marc Warren and his gang. I could be in that immaculately tailored business suit, no yogurt on the lapel. I could eat in minimalist restaurants with views over the Thames, where they don’t have a kids' menu. With my sheer craftiness and brilliance, and a few calls on a mobile phone thinner than a credit card… no… wait… thinner than a business card, I could trick business men, art dealers, tycoons, the lot of them, out of their millions. I could walk out of a lift towards a camera in slow motion, arms swinging, hips swinging, as the opening credits rolled. I could take on Marc Warren in quick-fire repartee. And win. The lovely word hustle does this for me.
I’ve had a fine old time with hustling on Youtube (who invented that thing? - as if we didn’t have enough demands on our time already). First, I found this truly marvellous clip from Hustle series 3 (sorry, it won't let me embed it here). It features the very building I once worked in, but I never saw anything even half as exciting from my window.
Next, there’s plenty of this:
I only included that out of sheer devilment, because people get cross with me when I leave them with a tune on their brain for the rest of the day, and this one is guaranteed. Doo doo doo, da doo, da doo doo doo.
Uber-suave con artists, naked bottoms flustering the tourists in Trafalgar Square, and one of the catchiest tunes of all time. As I said, hustling can do a lot for the morale. I don’t think I’ll ever want to go back to mere hurrying, or scooting (not even alliterative scooting).
When I lived in England, I would hurry. Or hurry up. Then I moved to Scotland and found myself scooting. “I must scoot”, I would say. I would scoot to the Co-op, which Husband and I called the Coop (we’re so amusing). Scooting to the Coop had a very pleasing feel to it. Scooting to school felt good too. It was for occasions such as these that school English lessons taught me the word alliteration.
Now in America, I hustle. I like that word. Hustle, hustled, hustling, hustle. It even sounds like what it means (there’s a word for that too, but I’m not going to use it – one word about words is enough showing off).
You’ve no idea what hustling can do for morale. Watching my son play soccer, for example, I hear another mom shout “Come on boys, half-time’s over. Let’s hustle.” She sees seven small boys in orange shirts and black shorts, who need encouraging into a second half. I see these people. For a short moment, I am aware of these facts: although I drove to the soccer ground in a Honda minivan in which the cd selection was Children’s Ultimate Party Album, Barney's It’s a Great Day for Learning, and Amy Grant’s Home for Christmas, and although the differential between my waist and hips isn’t anywhere near as large as it used to be, and although the extent of my interaction with young men these days is to yell “good jahb, CJ” at the goalie, deep down, deep down, I am oozing such ice cold urban chic that it is amazing my extremities haven’t frozen off, even though it’s in the 80's this afternoon and there’s no shade at the soccer ground. In another life, (I’m accumulating a worryingly large collection of these) I know I could be shoulder to shoulder with Marc Warren and his gang. I could be in that immaculately tailored business suit, no yogurt on the lapel. I could eat in minimalist restaurants with views over the Thames, where they don’t have a kids' menu. With my sheer craftiness and brilliance, and a few calls on a mobile phone thinner than a credit card… no… wait… thinner than a business card, I could trick business men, art dealers, tycoons, the lot of them, out of their millions. I could walk out of a lift towards a camera in slow motion, arms swinging, hips swinging, as the opening credits rolled. I could take on Marc Warren in quick-fire repartee. And win. The lovely word hustle does this for me.
I’ve had a fine old time with hustling on Youtube (who invented that thing? - as if we didn’t have enough demands on our time already). First, I found this truly marvellous clip from Hustle series 3 (sorry, it won't let me embed it here). It features the very building I once worked in, but I never saw anything even half as exciting from my window.
Next, there’s plenty of this:
I only included that out of sheer devilment, because people get cross with me when I leave them with a tune on their brain for the rest of the day, and this one is guaranteed. Doo doo doo, da doo, da doo doo doo.
Uber-suave con artists, naked bottoms flustering the tourists in Trafalgar Square, and one of the catchiest tunes of all time. As I said, hustling can do a lot for the morale. I don’t think I’ll ever want to go back to mere hurrying, or scooting (not even alliterative scooting).
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