A few weeks ago, my son’s team were drawn to play a cup game against a team from another league in a distant part of the county. They had never before played against this side, let alone visited the ground. This of course throws up all manner of new obstacles to be surmounted by my son and husband. Endless nights worrying about the colour of the opposition’s strip, what formation they are likely to play and on what standard of pitch. Several hours of searching the internet will throw up a series of past results, these will be printed off, and the two of them will pore over the stats like two old crones reading runes, in an attempt to second guess the quality of the team they are about to face. On the night before the game the standard routine of counting carbs and the correct hours of sleep was undertaken and a detailed plan of how to get to the ground, integrated with contingencies covering everything from road works to meteor strike en route.
Meeting the rest of the team, at the appointed hour before the birds are up, we followed a very straight road half way across the county for twenty five minutes, eventually taking one left turn to arrive at the ground several hours before the opposition.
After an hour or so, the home team began to arrive, and searching the faces for a kindred soul who may share my disinterest in football, I recognised one of the Dads entering the changing rooms, a tall thin man, full head of hair and possibly a little older than me. My thoughts invaded by my anxious husband banging on the car window shouting “I’ve forgotten the bloody cones” Climbing out of the car, I berated my stupid husband, who was by this time doing little hopping movements from foot to foot, and suggested that he would have to use the items in the boot that we were going to recycle on the way home. Realising he had no choice, he set off to warm up his charges in squares and oblongs set out with plastic margarine tubs, various wine bottles and cereal packets; The opposition groundsman, charging across from his shed to give him a lecture on litter and the youth of today.
Eventually the teams lined up for kick off, and I noticed that the man who I had earlier recognised was refereeing the match. And in a flash it came to me, the way he seemed to glide across the ground, the bringing together of his hands after every decision made, the all round peacable air that he bought to the game of football, this man was a Reiki man. Many years ago, during what my husband witheringly terms "my second new age phase rising" , I had attended a Reiki class in a nearby town. This man was the Reiki master - third dan no less, and what an effect he had on this game of football.
Reiki is touted as the simplest form of natural healing, positive energy is transmitted through the hands, and simply by shaking hands with each player and parent before the game he bought every person there into his Reiki bubble. Not one decision was questioned, or hardly a foul commited. He moved among the players, oozing positive universal life energy, spreading his divine wisdom and instilling the virtues of the five principles of Reiki, which from memory are, Don’t get cross, don’t worry, don’t tell lies, count your blessings and be kind to every creature (except spiders and crabs) The game moved serenely through to half time with no goals, hardly a tackle, and very little for any one to take issue with or comment on.
My husband, much to his later embarrassment, had been completely initiated by the referee, and instead of a half time team talk was informing his team of the need for each and everyone of them to find their own unique vibrational tone, by humming loudly, and to put their shorts on inside out to try and bring some balance to their Chakras.
The second half continued in much the same vein as the first. The opposition goalkeeper fell to the ground as he walked into the goal post in a daze, only to be swiftly resurrected after some skilful laying on of hands by the Reiki master. The game progressed with very little action, every tackle was met with the shaking of hands, every shot or save with a pat on the back; the referee reinforcing the harmony with regular clasps of his hands. With two minutes to go, and with neither my husband or his team seemingly bothered about the result, the game took a dramatic turn. Suddenly the opposition were charging up the pitch with the ball, full of intent and aggression. A ball crossed into the box was met by my son, who, with a head full of all things Reiki laid his hands on the ball; The ref who seemed to have lost his ability to glide and also a little of his serenity pointing to the spot. Step up opposition striker to blast the ball past our blissed out keeper and secure a place in the next round of the cup for his team. My son’s side, still deeply relaxed, full of inner peace and keen to please, allowing them to score twice more in the remaining minute.
The Full time whistle blew and by this time my husband had snapped out of his trance and was making his way over to the referee, with accusations ranging from witchcraft to smouldering herbal corner flags. The Reiki master, composure regained, held my husband’s gaze, laid his hands on his shoulders and proceeded to teach him of the importance of the various Chakras. He was a Reiki Master and was able to identify various Chakras that may be out of balance within an individual. On shaking hands at the start of the match it was apparent to him that my husband had two unbalanced Chakras, the first was in his kidney, indicating that he had a lot of pent up anger and frustration, the second was in his buttocks, soft buttocks indicating a tendancy to become powerless in certain situations, he was not sure if this refered to his private life or his football team, but felt that my husband’s team would never get to the cup final if he didn’t sort his Chakras out. My husband at this point boiled over, informing the Reiki master that for a party trick he was able to crack Walnuts in his buttocks, and that if the two teams ever met on a football pitch again, his side would be wearing plastic gloves. Turning on his heel and climbing into the car, pausing on his way out of the car park to tip all our items for recycling through the window of the Reiki Master’s Rolls Royce.
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