Disclaimer
This is a personal family blog containing parental observations, sporting opinions, questionable financial decisions and mild exaggeration for comic effect. Any comments about players, coaches, tournaments or sporting organisations reflect my own experiences and opinions. No children were financially ruined during the writing of this article, although one eight-year-old was required to purchase his own sports bag and remains deeply unimpressed by this injustice.
Normally, one sport takes over our household for a while.
During the summer it was cricket.
Before that, tennis.
Martial arts has quietly continued in the background, occasionally emerging to demand another belt, another grading and, inevitably, another collection of equipment.
This week, however, nobody wanted to take turns.
All three sports simply arrived at once.
Welcome to the Richardt Household Sporting Logistics Department.
Population: three.
Available evenings: apparently none.
Available money: increasingly theoretical.
The Great Sunday Sporting Collision
Last Sunday was the Somerset U10 tennis trial.
Unfortunately, it was also Eddie’s martial arts grading for his next belt.
Of course it was.
Because apparently sporting organisations across Somerset hold secret meetings where somebody produces our family calendar and says:
“That Sunday looks suspiciously manageable. Let’s fix that.”
The tennis trial therefore won the first round of scheduling Tetris, while martial arts grading moved to the backup date later in the week.
This clash has become slightly more relevant because Eddie has now acquired a third tennis session.
Monday evenings.
Which, naturally, clashes with martial arts.
Again.
He already plays enough tennis that I occasionally expect the LTA to send us a council-tax demand, but apparently another weekly session was required.
The good news is that martial arts runs every day of the week.
The bad news is that this gives us options.
Options are dangerous.
Technically Tuesday could work.
Saturday morning could work.
Friday probably works best.
We have therefore currently selected Friday, mainly because it appears to fit around work, tennis, cricket, school and the remainder of civilisation.
Somehow.
Ask me again next week.
The Usual Suspects Assemble
Anyway, back to the U10 tennis trials.
Two hours of tennis awaited, and the familiar Somerset faces gradually appeared.
Eddie.
Charlie.
The Carroll twins.
Henry.
Ted.
Plus several others we have accumulated knowledge of during the strange travelling circus that is junior tennis.
There were also a few new faces, which is always good to see.
One of them was Hector, whom Eddie knows rather well after losing to him in the semi-final of the U9 competition.
So presumably Eddie greeted him with the traditional junior tennis welcome:
“Hello. I remember exactly what happened last time.”
Some players who had regularly appeared earlier in the year were absent, including Benjamin and Finn. Whether that represents children moving away from competitive tennis, other commitments or simply not attending this particular session, I have no idea.
And this is probably worth remembering.
At eight and nine years old, children’s sporting trajectories are about as predictable as the British weather.
Someone dominating tournaments now might lose interest next year.
Someone struggling today might suddenly improve enormously six months later.
Someone might discover football.
Or Minecraft.
Or sitting down.
All entirely legitimate career choices.
On the girls’ side, only four players attended.
From what I have personally seen within Eddie’s age group over the last couple of years, the girls’ side has generally appeared less represented numerically than the boys’ cohort.
That is purely my observation from the events we have attended rather than any grand analysis of Somerset tennis participation.
But four players certainly isn’t many.
Whether others simply couldn’t attend the trial, I don’t know.
Two Hours Later…
The session itself involved the usual mixture of drills, points, movement, match play and coaches watching children while parents attempted not to look as though they were watching the coaches watching the children.
This is an important part of junior sport.
You must appear relaxed.
You stand somewhere nearby drinking coffee while internally conducting a complete performance analysis.
“His split step looked better.”
“That forehand was late.”
“Good serve.”
“Why is he standing there?”
“PLEASE MOVE YOUR FEET.”
Naturally, none of this should actually be shouted.
Ideally.
Earlier this week, Olga then received the email.
Eddie had made the Somerset U10 squad again.
Excellent news and, if we are being truthful, sort of expected — but junior sport has taught us never to assume anything until somebody has actually sent the email.
Attached to the good news was something else.
An invitation to join Teamo, the new app Somerset Tennis is going to use.
Teamo?
Never heard of it.
Nevertheless, we dutifully signed up and, to be fair, the process was surprisingly painless. Account created, Eddie added and another small piece of our sporting administration successfully digitised.
The only slight issue is that this means another app.
Because apparently modern junior sport cannot function unless every sport has its own dedicated corner of your phone.
Cricket already largely communicates through Spond.
Now Somerset Tennis has Teamo.
Presumably martial arts will eventually introduce something called Kickr, swimming will develop Splashr, and before long I will require an entire folder on my phone simply entitled:
EDDIE — LOGISTICS.
Still, another milestone reached.
Another tennis session added.
Another app downloaded. And somewhere in Somerset, our calendar quietly started crying.
Meanwhile, Back at the Dojang…
That brought us neatly to the rearranged martial arts grading.
Eddie was currently a green belt with white stripe.
This grading was the important one.
If he passed, he would become a green belt.
And this grading came with another important addition.
Sparring.
Which sounds exciting until you realise what sparring actually means to a parent.
Equipment.
More equipment.
Head protection.
Gloves.
Pads.
Guards.
Things with Velcro.
Things which apparently need to be precisely the correct size despite the child growing every six minutes.
I performed a quick estimate.
Approximately £160.
Excellent.
Because recently Olga had already spent around £150 on cricket equipment.
Then Eddie needed another cricket bat because he had lost his previous one.
At that point we decided an important life lesson was required.
So Eddie paid approximately £70 of his own money for the replacement bat.
This was not universally welcomed by the eight-year-old financial community.
But losing expensive sporting equipment does occasionally require consequences slightly more memorable than:
“Please don’t do that again.”
And then came the martial arts gear.
Olga bought the necessary protective equipment.
But Eddie was also informed that he would be paying for his own sports bag.
£25.
Again, the junior financial markets reacted badly.
There were representations.
There may have been negotiations.
There was possibly an expectation that the Bank of Mum and Dad would intervene with emergency liquidity.
It did not.
We explained that money does not grow on trees.
A sentence every parent says eventually despite secretly knowing that, from a child’s perspective, money clearly comes from a small plastic card that adults occasionally place near machines.
The concept that the plastic card is connected to actual money remains suspicious.
Grading Night
Fortunately, everything arrived before the rearranged grading.
Yesterday evening, Eddie headed off with Olga.
His school friend Tate was grading as well, which immediately made the whole thing more enjoyable.
There was some last-minute studying of the Q&A sheet beforehand because nothing motivates academic concentration quite like realising somebody may ask you a question in ten minutes.
I was working and didn’t finish until around 7:15 pm.
Fortunately, the martial arts venue is only about five minutes from the hospital — although, naturally, in completely the opposite direction from our house.
Because nothing in our schedule is permitted to be geographically convenient.
I arrived while the grading was already well underway.
From the outside came the familiar noises of people hitting things, shouting things and presumably demonstrating considerable discipline.
Shortly before 8 pm, the boys emerged.
Sweaty.
Exhausted.
And smiling enormously.
They had both passed.
Eddie had done it.
Green belt.
Another grading completed.
Another milestone achieved.
And, importantly, all that newly purchased protective equipment had successfully justified its existence.
For at least one evening.
Cricket Enters the Chat
You might reasonably think that was enough sport for one week.
Somerset U10 tennis squad successfully secured.
Teamo successfully installed.
Martial arts grading successfully completed.
Bank account successfully injured.
But cricket had been strangely quiet.
And cricket does not enjoy being ignored.
On the very same day, an email arrived from the Somerset Cricket Foundation advertising the winter training programme.
Three one-hour sessions over the next three months leading up to Christmas.
Cost:
£87.
Of course.
Booking opened earlier today.
And these winter courses tend to be popular.
Which means you cannot calmly consider whether £87 for three hours of cricket coaching represents another expense you’d like to undertake.
You instead enter the digital equivalent of the Glastonbury ticket queue.
Log in.
Find session.
Check age group.
Check dates.
Check that none clashes with tennis.
Check that none clashes with martial arts.
Check cricket against cricket, because at this stage that would somehow be possible.
Then book.
Quickly.
Naturally, more money was therefore spent this morning.
The £500 Fortnight
When you add everything together, the past fortnight has been financially impressive.
Cricket equipment.
New cricket bat.
Martial arts sparring equipment.
Sports bag.
Winter cricket coaching.
And somewhere on the horizon lurks another tennis racket, because Eddie will need a new one at the latest by his birthday.
Tennis rackets, as anyone involved in junior tennis will know, are apparently manufactured from carbon fibre, aerospace technology and fragments of the Crown Jewels.
Then there is the current kitten situation – That deserves an entire article of its own.
And it will get one.
But suffice to say that kittens also operate according to an economic model where every apparently small purchase leads to another apparently small purchase until you suddenly wonder why the cat owns more furniture than you do.
All together, we have managed to spend more than £500 in roughly two weeks.
On sport and cat-related infrastructure.
This does make you reconsider certain parenting statements.
“It’s wonderful that he’s active.”
Yes.
It is.
“At least he’s not sitting inside playing computer games all day.”
True.
But I suspect computer games don’t require a new racket, cricket bat, sparring kit, winter coaching programme and petrol to drive around Somerset every weekend.
Although I probably shouldn’t say that too loudly.
He might hear me.
The Sporting Juggle Continues
Still, looking beyond the increasingly traumatised debit card, it has actually been a rather lovely week.
Eddie successfully made the Somerset U10 tennis squad again.
He passed his grading and became a green belt.
Winter cricket is booked.
We have acquired another sporting app.
Three different sports continue to challenge him in completely different ways.
Tennis demands individual responsibility and concentration.
Martial arts requires discipline, technique and confidence.
Cricket brings teamwork, patience and the unique ability to spend three hours playing a sport while occasionally doing absolutely nothing.
And somehow he enjoys all three.
So now our job is simply to keep everything balanced.
Tennis Monday.
Possibly martial arts Friday.
Other tennis sessions elsewhere.
Cricket when required.
Spond for one sport.
Teamo for another.
School somewhere between all of this.
Work fitted into whatever spaces remain.
And perhaps, occasionally, sleep.
The logistics may be ridiculous.
The costs are becoming slightly alarming.
But seeing him walk out of his grading sweaty, exhausted and absolutely delighted with himself makes it difficult to complain too much.
Although I will obviously continue complaining.
It’s cheaper than therapy.
For now, however, I have one important task remaining.
I’m going into the garden.
Because after the past fortnight, I feel it would be financially irresponsible not to check whether money really does grow on trees.
And if it does, Eddie is absolutely watering it himself.
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