supplicium post mortem

I saw you every morning at the track last week. You taught at the soccer camp installed on the AstroTurf. I was the girl with the dogs – yes, those dogs.

Your accent struck me as Glasgow softened by a proper education. Fit, brown hair, six two and change, you commanded those six-year-olds with the most charming sense of fun.

“Fishy-fishy-fishy come and play in our sea. Sharky-sharky-sharky, you can’t catch me!” How did you lead them and never patronize, encourage without sing-song? You had the touch, the reflexes to hold them in your thrall without ever revealing the extent of your power. I’m like that, too, in the classroom. It takes nerve, concentration, and a kind of love.

I rather fancy that pirate ship game: “Climb the ropes! Spyglasses out! Climb back down! Captain on deck!” See, that’s where it could get interesting, if a stowaway were discovered. Too young for the Cat, you’d have to find other methods of correction, and instruction.

Or maybe something closer to home: you a gifted Captain of Games, me a weedy 4th former who’s never played proper football. You’d make me love it, and never let me slack – somehow.

So few people know how to play, from instinct, with generosity and conviction. So few people are a natural, with a crowd of kids, or a recalcitrant project. Don’t go back to Scotland yet. Let me make you pizza while you play with my dogs. Let’s see what other games eventuate.

Check out other missed connections this week:

• PapaTomLA
• Frenchies