AGE has crept up on me unnoticed and a family tradition has quietly died, which is sad.
Let me explain.
When my two daughters were little I would lay on the floor with them and play silly games. One was Mad Bull where they would sit on my back and I would buck around on the carpet in an attempt to dislodge them.
But by far the most popular was the Flying Kilcommons circus routine. It was a simple enough manoeuvre. I would lay on my back and hold their shoulders at arms length and they would balance their feet on my raised knees. They would then stretch their arms out as if flying.
Dah, dah!
All right, so it may not be a new idea or particularly clever but it was fun and they enjoyed it and thought it was unique.
I introduced it to our grandsons in Ireland, albeit with a change of name (it became the Flying McKees).
Now we have a grand-daughter, Jeannie Kerr and I thought, in a few months time, I shall give her the same thrill. I was quite looking forward to the debut performance until my wife Maria and I looked after our eight month old bundle of delight last weekend.
Down I went on the rug so I would be her size and rolled and played.
I creaked a bit but everything was fine until I tried to get up.
What had happened to the supple resilience of that small but beautifully formed body that had survived a thousand tackles in the Sunday League?
Why was I rolling around on my back like a landed cod, imitating Ronaldo at his most dramatic? Would Maria have to send for the paramedics?
“He was attempting the Flying Kerrs.”
“Sounds nasty. You sure he’s not imitating Ronaldo?”
Eventually, I rolled over and used the sofa to get to my knees and then slowly to my feet. Jeannie watched with interest and did the same. She kept hold of the sofa, I flopped onto it.
“Sorry,” I told her. “It’s the end of an era. No more circus acts for me. And don’t even mention Mad Bull.”
