Last night the old Boy and I went to watch our grandson’s first football match. It was a family affair with all of us there except my daughter-in-law who couldn’t leave work in time. They didn’t use the whole oval, just one small patch down in the goal square, but it was big enough for these guys. They were all aged 5 or 6, except for our grandson who’ll turn 5 in a couple of weeks. It was an interesting experience.

You’ve heard the term: It’s like herding chooks. These were chooks with attitude. When they weren’t part of the scrambling melee around the ball, they entertained themselves with wrestling matches…with their own team-mates. In the third quarter the umpire had to issue a warning to one enterprising child: Leave the goalposts alone or I’ll give the other team a free kick. The curly-headed moppet was playing “horsey” with the little, movable goal post. The sad thing is, it was the first time in the evening when he’d looked like he was having fun.

There was an escapee at half time. Most of the lads gathered around the coach for half-time instructions…and the food he was handing around. Our boy was posing for “action shots” that his grandpa was photographing, while his dad kept urging him to go listen to the coach. But then, out of the pack, a flash of red and black made a run for it. Just over the boundary line his father finally caught up with him. He was carried back but he didn’t go without a fight. He even tried the old ‘go-limp-and-droopy-in-their-arms’ trick.

There was a lot to impress me last night.

There were the  kids who kept running up and down, trying like Trojans, even though they had no idea what they were doing.
There were the parents, uncles and aunties, siblings and friends who sat (if they were lucky) or stood around the chook -sorry – footy field on a cold night, to encourage those kids.
There were the coaches, who kept rounding up the stray chooks, trying to offer some sort of guidance. (We should pay these people squillions of dollars; they deserve every cent.)

And then there was the umpire. My son-in-law told us the fellow was a grandpa of one of the kids in our grandson’s team. He could have been home watching the big game on TV, in the comfort of his favourite chair, and who could begrudge him that. But, there he was in his shorts, a whistle around his neck, running up and down amongst the lads, like an aged colossus surrounded by munchkins. There are three things about this man that deeply impressed me (apart from him actually being there).

1. He was very fit. I could barely walk from the car to the field and this chap ran up and down for forty minutes and didn’t even puff.
2. He seemed to know what the kids were actually doing. He blew his whistle; he called illegal tackles (there were a lot of them); he reminded the kids which end their goal was… How on earth did he make sense of the swirling maelstrom of little sweaty bodies?
3. He smiled the whole time. He actually seemed to enjoy himself, even when he was “accidentally” kicked in the shins.

Volunteers are the unsung heroes of society. I’m constantly blown away by the people who willingly, selflessly, give of their time and resources to help others, with no expectation of reward or even recognition. I raise my glass to you, oh patient umpiring grandpa, and all you other wonderful, giving people and I say: Huzzah, sire! Well done, oh good and faithful!

Spam update: This week there were 87 spam attempts on my blog about spam. Hahaaa. You’ve got to admire their tenacity.