Real WAG's of the world, I salute you.

Once upon a time there was a young and, well, unknown princess who met her Prince Charming.

Her Prince Charming was the grandest of soccer players, slaying teams across the land. His magnificence was not matched by any rival.

The Princess grew ever fonder of her magnificent Prince and placed his limitless soccer skills amongst the many things she loved about him.

‘Hooray!’ The Princess rejoiced, ‘we shall be married and I will serve my life as a WAG with honour and pride’. The little Princess gazed into the sunsets and dreamed of a time when she would be sitting in a corporate box, champagne in hand, watching on as Prince Charming continued his reign of soccer genius. 'How glamorous and proud I will be!’

And so, the Princess and her Prince Charming lived happily ever onto the following season when she discovered that her ending had been vastly miscalculated and her life would now revolve heavily around a schedule of training and game times. The End.

Okay, okay.  Let me just state here and now that I am forever and always proud and impressed by my Soccer Hubby. Soccer Hubby is a renowned soccer player who is within his circles of soccer tables, an all-round brilliant player.

Initially, I was breathlessly in awe of how wonderful everyone declared him to be. (I say that because in the beginning he could have literally started doing cartwheels mid game and I would have had no idea if that was correct soccer procedure or not. I had to just nod and smile and take every one else’s word for it that what he was doing was indeed, wonderful.)

I loved watching him stroll out in his lovely emblem embossed team shirt as he packed his bag and paced the kitchen in preparation. 

He had such passion for it, it was almost like his religion. He lived and breathed this game and I felt so privileged that he was allowing me to share in this journey with him.

He studied international leagues with aspiration. He refused to stay out late at night so that the game would inherit his full potential. He even trained when he didn’t have to so that he could give the game more than it could ever want.

‘Oh what fabulous traits to find in a male!’ said I. 

Then I found out. 

I found out what Posh Spice has been hiding from us behind all that lip gloss.

Soccer is not an example of the dedication a man will apply to all aspects of his life. Soccer is a mistress. A bitchy, demanding mistress who flaunts her power over him in front of me with glee.

I do love watching him play, I do. I love nothing more than screaming on the sideline as he whips the ball into the back of the net while I look around to make sure everyone knows that he’s the player I came here with.

However…. to be that guy, the one scoring those goals, requires the love and patience of a very understanding woman. 

Like my Mother-In-Law before me, I salute you the soccer supporting women behind the men. We are kindred souls and we carry our burdens well.

To start with, Scouts beware, you can never be prepared for a sideline. Mother Nature is usually PMSing for the duration of any game and regardless of what the weather has been like in the build up, it will change drastically the second the whistle blows.

I have sat in rain, mud, heatwaves, snow, hail…you name it, I can name a game I’ve been at during it.

(Sorry, I’m just taking a moment here to remember the shoes that have fallen serving in the line of game time... I digress..)

My point is, where there is rain, there is mud. Where there is grass, there are grass stains. Both of these elements will entwine themselves around everything that steps onto a pitch. 

Soccer Hubby scatters throughout the house what I like to refer to as ‘soccer shrapnel’. At any one time, there are boots (several pairs because you train in heavy ones and play in light ones apparently), ankle guards, decomposing shin pads, electrical tape, socks and the like spread from room to room.

(And before you ask, no, you can’t keep it all in the soccer bag because it is vital that this be aired out upon conclusion of each match.)

I thankfully can count myself as one of the lucky ones. There was a time where I felt a dialogue had to be initiated between Soccer Hubby and the laundry room and bless him, the hint was well received.

“Pre-wash Spray and Soaker, this is Soccer Hubby. Please go easy on him, he’s new here.” 

But in spite of kit maintenance and the organisation of soccer shrapnel, there is one thing that I will battle with for the rest of his soccer career.

The Priority.

“Look, an invitation to Mr & Mrs’s wedding Soccer Hubby!”

“Can’t go, got a game on”

“When shall we have Miss Moo’s Naming Day?”

 “After the soccer season.”

“What’s on telly Soccer Hubby?”

“Soccer.”

“Shall we go on a picnic today?”

“Yes, but I have to leave in time for soccer.”

Yes. There is a level of a priority between this pair that I will forever envy.

So, Soccer Ladies, and ladies who have a soccer mistress of any form. I salute you and urge you to use this to your advantage when applicable....

“Soccer Hubby, did you see the Chelsea goal in the second half?” 

Full attention. “What? Did you?”

“No, but now that you’re listening I need you to take the garbage out.”