It's not the taking part that counts...

Yesterday I reluctantly decided to support my son's decision to be outside (YES! without a small screen inches from his eyes!) and went to join in a family game of football in the back garden. Football is not a sport I excel at. Or even know much about. I was secretly praying for the rains to come...would you believe it! They didn't!

None of my family are very good at football, but we are competitive. There is no way I was going to let my husband win if I could help it.

My son decided on the goals: ours was a fence panel; my husband and daughter aimed for 'the wall between the windows'. My heart lost a beat every time they attempted a shot at goal.

My husband would get the ball, then my daughter would shout, 'Pass!' and tackle it from him. We had to explain that 'passing' meant actually kicking the ball to another player.

Due to an extremely muddy walk with the dog earlier on I only had my best shoes to wear. I slipped and slid all around inside them. Occasionally I could co-ordinate enough to kick the ball, though usually to a rather grateful husband rather than my teammate son.

Well, the game ended when my latest husband's tackle (grabbing my arm and holding me back) meant I fell to the ground in agony, having strained some muscle in my shoulder. That's not where you're supposed to get injuries in a football game, is it?

Never mind. Whilst I was lying on the grass in extreme pain my son took the ball and scored repeated goals against our fence panel. So we won!

And that's what counts, right?