Sweet hell of soccer mumdom, let thee commence for another Saturday morning.

Every Saturday like clockwork we commute the 80km round trip to the muddy sludge fest that is our “local” soccer field. We stand around for an hour with 100km/ph ice winds hammering us in the face while our poor babies battle it out on the field in shorts that touch their shoes and oversized numbered T -shirts all the while trying to impress the hoards of screeching parents on the sideline living vocariously through their children.

I confess that I have never been the sporting type and frankly, I have had some trouble understanding the desire to kick the living snot out of a ball on a muddy field with the constant threat of hypothermia hanging over me, but when our tiny town discovered that we finally had enough kids to make up a soccer team, Buzz and Gucci HAD to be a part of it. Literally.

 In the beginning the little tykes gave it their all, they looked back at their parents with “am I doing ok?” looks on their faces and the team spirit when a goal is scored was unbelievable.

 Sadly for our team those goals have been a bit few and far between and the fact that the 1^st coach quit, the second coach has a badly broken shoulder and the temporary replacement is in bed with the flu, well it hasn’t really helped any.

As a result that energizing team spirit has started to fall a little bit and some of the original congratulatory high fives have been replaced by minor looks of contempt. Yet the kiddies are still running their little hearts out every week determined to score “At least one goal, mum!” before that final whistle blows.

As for my boys? Well I don’t care if they don’t win, as long as they have fun and try their best I will always be proud of them. They don’t care either, as long as I give them $1 each after the game to spend at the only canteen left in Australia that still deals in 5c lollies.