... that's all I'm asking for.
A break from 'capping, watching sport, typing sport, talking sport, thinking sport.
I want to tell you about my day.
Worked this morning from 6am to 11am, writing sport for the paper and 'capping games in between stories.
Got home in time to take my 5-year-old son out to grab some lunch for us all and play some board games on a dismal wet and cold winter's Saturday with him, my 3-y-o daughter and my wife.
Then back out to work at 2pm to cover a game of basketball. My home team, the Waikato Titans v Auckland in the NBL semifinals.
It was "sudden death".
No series playoffs, just one game, winner takes all.
Do or die.
The Titans, after trailing all game, won a nerve-wracking game 93-88. The fans went wild, the Titans were elated, the Aucklanders devastated.
I hopped into the car to drive home, listening intently for the scores of the rugby games I'd capped that morning.
Damn! Marlborough pipped by an injury-time try! Their coach said he was "gutted; shattered" by the result. Yeah, me too pal. But Northland cover! Yeeaaahhh. Fist pump!!
Get home, have tea, brush my kids' teeth, tuck them into bed, read them a story, kiss 'em goodnight and turn off the light.
I sit down to read our paper. The front page picture-story is by Rosemary North, our health reporter. It's about a 12-year-old boy and his family. The boy has cancer.
Terminal cancer.
The picture shows the kid - Adam - lying asleep in his bed while his mum, dad, younger sister and brother look over him, smiling.
Adam will die soon.
He is ready. He has packed "a heaven bag".
That's as far as I could get.
I cried. Floods and floods of tears.
He looked like my son. He could have been my son. He's their son. He's everybody's son.
My mum died of cancer when I was 18. My dad died of cancer nearly five years ago. I was 28. I still never told them how much they meant to me. I didn't know until they left.
Turn off the PC. Switch off the TV. Put down the stats.
Go and hug your kids. Your wife. Your partner. The ones you love.
Tell those people in your life what they mean to you and why you share your life with them.
Then do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next....
Tomorrow, I'll work. I'll watch sports. I'll cap games. I'll swear, I'll laugh, I'll worry.
But I won't forget what's important. Not this time. Not from now on.
Nothing else matters.
Thanks for your time
A break from 'capping, watching sport, typing sport, talking sport, thinking sport.
I want to tell you about my day.
Worked this morning from 6am to 11am, writing sport for the paper and 'capping games in between stories.
Got home in time to take my 5-year-old son out to grab some lunch for us all and play some board games on a dismal wet and cold winter's Saturday with him, my 3-y-o daughter and my wife.
Then back out to work at 2pm to cover a game of basketball. My home team, the Waikato Titans v Auckland in the NBL semifinals.
It was "sudden death".
No series playoffs, just one game, winner takes all.
Do or die.
The Titans, after trailing all game, won a nerve-wracking game 93-88. The fans went wild, the Titans were elated, the Aucklanders devastated.
I hopped into the car to drive home, listening intently for the scores of the rugby games I'd capped that morning.
Damn! Marlborough pipped by an injury-time try! Their coach said he was "gutted; shattered" by the result. Yeah, me too pal. But Northland cover! Yeeaaahhh. Fist pump!!
Get home, have tea, brush my kids' teeth, tuck them into bed, read them a story, kiss 'em goodnight and turn off the light.
I sit down to read our paper. The front page picture-story is by Rosemary North, our health reporter. It's about a 12-year-old boy and his family. The boy has cancer.
Terminal cancer.
The picture shows the kid - Adam - lying asleep in his bed while his mum, dad, younger sister and brother look over him, smiling.
Adam will die soon.
He is ready. He has packed "a heaven bag".
That's as far as I could get.
I cried. Floods and floods of tears.
He looked like my son. He could have been my son. He's their son. He's everybody's son.
My mum died of cancer when I was 18. My dad died of cancer nearly five years ago. I was 28. I still never told them how much they meant to me. I didn't know until they left.
Turn off the PC. Switch off the TV. Put down the stats.
Go and hug your kids. Your wife. Your partner. The ones you love.
Tell those people in your life what they mean to you and why you share your life with them.
Then do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next....
Tomorrow, I'll work. I'll watch sports. I'll cap games. I'll swear, I'll laugh, I'll worry.
But I won't forget what's important. Not this time. Not from now on.
Nothing else matters.
Thanks for your time
