rugby

My Son The Rugby Commentator

This afternoon we took the children with us to the local Irish pub to watch Ireland play Argentina in the quarter finals of the Rugby World Cup. They knew my dad was at the match, so I thought we could interest them by keeping an eye out for him. 

We got there, found seats with a good view and ordred our drinks. Fairly quickly Number One was bored and sulky. Number Three was mesmerised by the flickering of the screen. Number Two, however, was a bundle of excitement and gave us a running commentary. The. Whole. Way. Through. The. Match.


“The Argentina one hurt his nose”.

“Do you see that fat one with the fat face? He has camouflage trousers”.


“Did you see the leprechaun?” 


“I can’t see Grandad”.


“The blue one pushed the green one because he thought he had the ball”.


“Why is there grass growing inside a house? A stadium is a house”.


In response to my pointing out the president of Ireland: “Who? The one with hair growing out his ears?”


“I think I am up for Argentina”.

At bedtime, four hours after the match ended: “Did Ireland lose?”

Little Hearts, Big Love

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