There’s something you should understand about my dad. He’s the type of guy that turns up to his daughters’ touch football game in speedos. It sounds bad, but in real life it was so much worse. You see, the Northern Beaches touch football competition rounds up everyone. Legitimately, it’s like walking through your recent searches on Facebook, but in real life.
So here I am. I’ve spent years straightening my hair until steam rolled off it, carefully selecting the perfect strands to just “fall from my ponytail onto my face”. Then, after blasting myself with impulse, I was ready to go.
I’m standing with my friends, when I hear dad’s voice calling “Hello!”. I turn, and my stomach literally drops. There he is, in a t-shirt and speedos. SPEEDOS! His skinny legs poking out for the world to see and judge.
To make it even more spectacularly stupid, the touch game was at 8.30 at night, and the field is far enough away from the beach for it to be socially unacceptable to stroll around in your speedos. Actually, it’s never acceptable to get around in speedos, especially not my dad. I almost cried.
The worst part was that Dad didn’t understand what he’d done wrong. That’s the sort of guy he is; he has no conceptual understanding of what would embarrass his daughter. But in his favour, he’s the kind of dad that never fails to turn up to watch a game of touch.
Dad taught me all the basics, and so much more.