“Hang a bitch-hook and park right there. Jesus.”

Said Jamie, after soccer, when we were driving up and down 4th Ave in Kitsilano, dodging the elderly and infirm, as well as flocks of families with buggies of children, while looking for a place to park my freaking land-yacht Subaru wagon. It was tense. I had missed a couple of juicy spots and Jamie was getting grouchy, hilariously.

“This is embarrassing.”

But, in the end, it all worked out o.k. We parked. No people got run over. We bought beer. And, previously, my knees held up, both of them. I made a couple of decent – and quite polite – tackles, and also tactfully refrained from sweeping my right leg, scythe-like, through the 3-foot tall midget guy that came out to play. I thought that was decent of me. One ballsy fellow though, that’s for sure, so hats off to him to getting stuck in.

Will there be more soccer in the future? There might. There just might.

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