My dad had plans for my brother.
Big plans.
Soccer plans.
My brother, unfortunately, had very different plans.
The problem was not enthusiasm from my dad.
That man could run.
He would charge up and down the side of the field like a wounded buffalo as if he was about to be subbed in at any moment.
"RUN!"
"KICK!"
"GO AFTER THE BALL!"
Because according to my dad, the ball was not arriving by invitation. And in that respect he was 100% correct.
You had to fetch it, or chase it, or steal it from another player, or tackle, do something.
My brother, meanwhile, treated soccer with a more observational approach, with the best seat in the house, on the pitch itself.
If the ball came near him, there was a moment of consideration.
Would he kick it?
Would he move?
Would he dramatically fall over after attempting either?
Nobody knew.
Least of all my dad.
And my poor father would be beside himself. ;-)
How had a man who loved cycling, played soccer and skated ended up with a son who seemed personally offended by cardio?
Soccer didn't stick.
Karate arrived.
Hope returned.
This was it.
The sport.
The breakthrough.
The future champion.
My brother had other ideas.
Years later though, life has a sense of humour.
Because now he has children doing brilliantly at gymnastics and underwater hockey.
And suddenly he is that dad.
The one watching.
Encouraging.
Invested.
Living every moment right alongside them.
Funny how life does that.
Sometimes the child who never chased the ball grows up to raise the children who fly.