First Competitive Match

A few weeks ago, Highbury Wolves, who you've trained with in Barnard Park for a year, asked if you wanted to play for the U10 team as goalkeeper. You'd been musing leaving them to train with Bloomsbury because a few of your classmates train and play there, but this offer changed your mind. You did "umm" and "err" a bit because you feared it might take away from your chess, but we were told that we didn't have to commit to every game and so we agreed, paid our money, and today was your first match. I bought you new gloves a week or so ago and you were ready (though I was nervous and feared howlers - not because you're not good in goal (you are) but because I'm naturally inclined to worry what a setback might mean). I needn't have worried. You were a substitute and didn't play in the first half. Highbury Wolves were losing 1-0 at half time to AC Utd, who looked better, generally. You came on at half-time and didn't have to make a real save in the whole match. What you did, you did well: told defenders what to do, kept your position pretty well and passed to team mates from the couple of goal kicks. It would obviously have been a better debut if you had had to make a save and had done so well. But I was proud to see you out there beginning to take control of the area.

Kerry's death

I heard of Kerry's death a few minutes before I was supposed to start playing football on Monday 10th February. I cycled home again and you - from your bed - wanted to know why I'd returned. I just said I suddenly didn't feel like playing and hid my sadness as I kissed you goodnight again. I told you on Tuesday 11th and we cried together. Later I took you to school. I had not told you in real time about the death of my best friend Deyika three years earlier. You were younger and have always been extremely sensitive. I approached this differently and kept you informed after school of the related things I had done each day - identified her body, gone to the undertakers, gone into the house. You knew there would be a viewing and wanted to see your aunt. You were determined in a way that I believe had some element of self-challenge to it. When I saw Kerry, I don't think she looked great and I gave you the option of not seeing her. We went in with mummy and we hugged and cried. Later we spent time with the extended family for lunch. You had said you would speak at Kerry's funeral. We wrote a couple of lines and you liked a poem I suggested. "Hello, My name is Rock and I am Kerry’s nephew. I want to share some impressions of my aunty. She was a generous aunty – last time we met she gave me some money to play arcade games. She was funny too, she made jokes, tickled me and tried to make me laugh. I want to read this poem by Mary Frye because it sounds like she’s still here. It’s comforting. Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn’s rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush, I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. Thank you for listening!" I was so proud of your bravery and strength in deciding to speak. I had to come up and support you during the reading. Later you thanked me! That felt so grown-up. As much as how strong you were, that recognition of my support felt like an important moment. For a couple of nights after Kerry's funeral, you wanted extra love and attention. One night you asked me not to go out. Since then, you seem to have been fine. Of course, grief can affect us long after the event.