Ah, 2015. A simpler time. A time when my boys were still consumed by soccer, and my weekends were devoted to the sacred ritual of standing on the sidelines of a muddy field, staring into the misty abyss, wondering where I went wrong in life. And I mean misty. Look at these photos! Was I at a soccer game or starring in a low-budget remake of The Fog?

This was back when soccer ruled our lives. Wednesday nights were for training, and Sundays? Oh, Sundays. While most sane people were sipping coffee on the couch in their warm, heated homes, I was out there in January, January, people! watching 12-year-olds chase a ball across a frostbitten field like their lives depended on it.

The only thing colder than the air was the referee’s heart when he let the game go into overtime. (Let’s be honest, kids’ soccer games going into extra time is proof that some people just want to watch the world freeze.)

And the weather? Forget sunny skies or cool breezes. Nope, it was damp, foggy, and just warm enough for mud to form but not warm enough to make you feel anything in your extremities. Somewhere in the second half, I usually found myself wondering if hypothermia was covered by our health insurance.

But here’s the thing: I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything. There’s a pride that comes with watching your kids go all in, running, sliding, scoring (sometimes), and giving it everything they’ve got. Watching them on that foggy battlefield of a soccer field, I could see their dedication, their love for the game, and their unbreakable spirit. Well, that and their uncanny ability to get mud everywhere.

But let’s not kid ourselves. The real MVP of those days wasn’t me or the kids. It was the fireplace waiting at home. Oh, sweet, glorious fireplace, with your promise of warmth and sanity. After those games, we’d huddle around it, still frozen to the bone but filled with stories of “almost goals” and “unfair penalties.” It was the perfect way to end a chaotic day: family, fire, and thawing out before our toes turned black.

Looking back now, it’s not just the soccer games I miss. It’s the little things. The fog on the field. The sound of cleats on icy grass. The way we all piled into the car, freezing and tired but happy. Those were the days when my boys were discovering who they were, determined, tough, and maybe a little nuts (because, seriously, who plays soccer in January?).

Now, ten years later, they’ve moved on to new passions, and I don’t have to stand in sub-zero temperatures every weekend. But I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, because those cold Sundays weren’t just about soccer,they were about family.

Here’s to the frostbitten memories, the foggy fields, and the fireplaces that saved us all.

Proud dad, signing off. (And no, I still don’t miss the mud.)