Watching from the sidelines,
see him as he goes.
Tackled, teased and tormented,
then the ball he throws.
Your face lights up,
Your standing proud,
“That’s my son!”, You shout aloud.
He follows through, the chase is on,
he looks around, his opponents gone.
The field ahead, is open wide,
his sprint becomes, a graceful glide.
Then something happened, something wrong.
Down he went, embarrassment strong.
He tripped and fell, with no one round,
That shattering noise, hearts breaking sound.
You stand up quick, stand up proud,
“That’s my son!”, You shout aloud.
To his side, you fight your way,
is he hurt, can he still play?
Embarrassment you see, on his face,
as booing parent’s exhibit disgrace.
On bended knee, to him you say,
“So you fell over son, It’s all ok”
“I’m sorry dad”, he says aloud,
“I tried so hard to make you proud”.
In your chest, your heart does sink,
when did he not, you try to think.
So you stand up quick, you stand up proud
“That’s my son!” you shout aloud
