Loco Parentis

I think that I have shown good parenting skills in working as a team with my wife in the bringing up of our three children, now all in their twenties.

Responsible, careful and diligent but not forgetting that growing up is fun we blended a good sound moral base with a sense of social justice and all tied together with love and a healthy respect for life.

I must have taken my foot off the pedal, my eye off the ball and forgotten all of the basics of parenting in a shameful culmination of events just this Sunday.

It was a football match for the Under 11's team in which the eldest son of our Iranian friend plays at number 11- striker.

The venue was a secondary school playing field some 7 miles away and it was my turn, working on strict rotation with my wife, to provide transport and pitch side support for the young lad.

We are sort of adoptive English Grandparents but with a very hard job to emulate in any regard their actual senior relatives back in Iran.

Arriving about twenty minutes before kick off and therefore with plenty of time for the team warm up I made the decision to make a dash to the other side of the town where there was a supermarket.

It was of course Mothering Sunday and I could purchase a gift to go with the card and hand it over after the game. My Mother, ever energetic and enthusiastic had actually texted me to say that she quite fancied walking across to the school to see some of the football and then cadge a lift back to her house afterwards.

I had a great plan and everything , amazingly, worked out precisely. Purchases were made and I was soon parked up again at the school site. I felt pleased with myself.

Chores done it was time to concentrate on the match.

Local league games are very well organised with dedicated standing areas pitch-side with rope barrier and even the prospect of a bacon sandwich and hot cup of tea from supportive mums and dads, most welcome on a cold winter and spring morning.

I took up a position just level with the half way line. It was very much in the camp of the home team but as I said there is nowadays no threat of aggravation, swearing or intimidation against the away team entourage. It is a far cry from my own experiences as a youth player or even when attending with my own children when they were young.

I could not actually see any of the parents of our team and so was content to stay where I was.

It was after about five minutes of spectating, only some 20 minutes into the first half that I noticed that my responsibility, in loco parentis, was not playing. That was not unusual as the game at that level is only 9 a side and you are allowed a sort of rolling arrangement of replacing players as and when they are tired and need a rest or are injured.

The four seater folding bench on the opposite side of the pitch, the hub of the team with Manager, Coach and resting substitutes was occupied with diminutive figures in the distinctive black and yellow buzzy bee strip of the team. I squinted. None of the occupants resembled our adopted grandson.

A double take was necessary but with the same conclusion. The lad was nowhere to be seen.

A toilet break in the school sports hall could not be ruled out and so I was not yet panicking.

It was then that I was approached by the father of the goalkeeper of the team.

We had spoken probably half a dozen words over the winter training sessions but he was definitely a bit over chatty this time. The tone of the conversation did not really sink in at first but my heart sank upon being informed that the lad had been taken to hospital after complaining of breathing difficulties. He said that the team manager and his wife were at the Minor Injuries Unit but had been unable to contact anyone about it.

Just then a got a text from the boys father asking me how his son was at the hospital.

Can you imagine how I felt at being exposed for a fraud and being so uncaring?

That drive, only about a mile seemed to take an age. I did have time to ring Mother to tell her the situation. She was having trouble clambering over a fence around the school field which even to her 80 years would constitute a very scaleable object indeed. I felt torn between getting to the Hospital and waiting around in case my Mother threw out a hip during her exploits. We agreed to meet up later at her house.

At the newly built Community Hospital it was easy to find where I needed to be as there was a faint trail of mud with football boot stud marks that the lad had left behind on his arrival. I breezed in with genuine concern although with a bit of dramatic licence to cover up my shortcomings.

I joked with the team manager that he had better get back quick to save the team from collapse before sitting down and checking that the boy was okay.

He was a bit coughy and spluttery from a head cold and sore throat. If I had been a diligent adopted Grandparent I should have advised on his staying at home for that match but that was another glaring failing.

The Doctor did the usual tests on oxygen levels and breathing before announcing that the problem had been exercise induced asthma with no lasting implications.

I was quizzed on who I was by the medic, evidently aware of my earlier absence when booking in the distressed patient.

After two hours in the Waiting and Consulting rooms we were discharged.

I must have given the impression of making a run for it across the car park.

On reflection it could have been a lot worse.

At the moment, however, all parties involved are at the laughing stage at the recounting of the events.