Speaker’s corner

NO MORE the low, liquid warble of the coucal – they are those heavy-billed chestnut-backed predatory birds that slink around the undergrowth. Even the crested barbet’s call – that cheap imitation of an alarm-clock – is now less shrill. Only the witches’ chorus of the hadeda ibises that wake us at first light these mornings remain unmuted.

All are signals of the change in seasons – a signal that the Vaalies are planning to make their annual trek south to Durban in search of winter sunshine and to watch a couple of games between their various sides and the Sharks.

This, after all, is the major season for rugby and soccer.

This is when dad gets a lot of exercise – especially those with sons and, more especially, if their sons play primary school rugby which, in South Africa, is played barefoot, even on the frosty Highveld.

While mother remains well away from the touchline, usually with head in hands afraid to look because she’s noticed that the opposing school team is composed of giant mutants who all look to be over 25, Dad is racing up and down the touchline shouting to his boy, “Give it an up and under!” or “Runnn!” and the kid might well stop and ask, “What? I mean ‘pardon’, Dad?”

When it comes to junior soccer, Dad gets even more exercise. As soon as the whistle goes his son is right in there in the swarm as they chase the ball like a trail of angry bees. The kid in front keeps kicking the ball ahead until he falls over; then the kid behind takes over.

Dad is racing alongside barely resisting the temptation to go on to the pitch himself while shouting “Kick! Kick! Kick the ball!’ The boy might, of course, stop to hear what he is shouting and then all the others concertina into him from behind.

Then some kid in the opposing side gets the ball and the swarm now changes direction.

Now an opposing father, barely avoiding a collision with the first father, yells to his son, “Kick for Pete’s sake! No! No! I mean, kick the BALL!”

It’s like playing a voice-activated video game.

I have no sons. I have though, two daughters and I could see from early on they were unlikely to become sports stars. Though I must say, coming red-faced and sweating off the hockey pitch after a robust game, they did look formidable.

But I could see they would never reach the heights where they would be paid millions of rands to wear advertisements on their clothes and become rich enough to keep their old man in the style to which he would like to become accustomed.

In any event swimming was their best sport and when it comes to attire, swimmers don’t have much space for placing adverts.

At swimming galas parents tend to shout fatuous advice to their offspring, like “Swim!” I never did this because I could see that that’s what they were doing and I felt it a bit insensitive to yell such advice. Even in the middle of a 100 metre sprint I’ve heard parents shout “Run!”

I am told that with boys it’s different: you HAVE to shout. If you don’t they tend to forget what they are supposed to be doing.

A friend tells me that if during, say, the 2 000 metre running event, he didn’t keep shouting “Run!” his son would lose concentration and wander off to find him and ask for money to buy a hot dog.

Instead of pushing my two girls at swimming I bought them tennis racquets because I’d noticed that tennis stars can flaunt trade marks on their head bands, wrist bands, tops, skirts, socks, shoes, racquet strings and tog bags.

It proved a poor investment.