I didn’t see it coming, even though all the signs were there. I guess I just wasn’t listening – or at least was only hearing the bits I wanted to.
Anyway, here it is. Son on the River has given up rowing.
I can, now I’ve thought about it, entirely see why. Like me, he’s neither tall nor bulky. However good his technique may be (and I’m told it’s pretty good) until such times as there’s a lightweight category for juniors, he’s never going to make the cut at the top end of the sport. Unlike me, though, he runs like the wind. So Son on the River has decided – for the time being at least – to become Son on the Run.
Why am I telling you all of this? It’s not to draw you into my family affairs; I long ago vowed to stop plundering my kids’ lives for writing material. The fact is that it has some pretty major implications for me.
It’s strangely liberating. Much as I loved talking rowing to Son on the River (probably too much, as it turns out), the idea of having my beloved sport all to myself is surprisingly thrilling. It is My Thing – not just something I took up to keep my son company.
I guess that means I’m a keeper.
