Jonny McCambridge: Finding the energy to be fun daddy – it’s time for a game of bucketball

“They’re not kids now,” he laughed. “They’re grown and have flown the coop.”

This caught me momentarily by surprise. Someone of my age who has grown-up children? It didn’t seem right.

On reflection, it made sense. This chap had got married in his early 20s and started a family. I hosted him and his wife for dinner back around the turn of the millennium. They needed to get a babysitter to allow them to attend.

That distant evening was dominated by their talk of parenting, their struggle to raise the kids when not yet in established careers and finding money tight. I was able to emphasise to an extent.

I was continually broke then, unfocused and lived a semi-nomadic lifestyle, moving from one dingy rented flat in Belfast to the next. The prospect of me ever raising a child seemed remote.

And then, as I served a slice of my upside-down pineapple cake, my friend said something which has stayed with me.

“We wanted to do it when we were still young, when we had the energy to enjoy it.”

Among the dizzying myriad of random and interconnected thoughts, memories and sentiments which whizz through my brain, that is one moment which has stuck.

I’ve lost count of the number of times the words have come back to me, particularly since I have embraced the challenge of being a daddy.

Energy, for me, has always been an issue. From the early years of sleep deprivation, hauling myself out of bed in the dark hours, to the years of running around playparks – I’ve often wished I had deeper reserves of stamina.

I was pushing 40 when I became a father. I was hardly an old man, although I had conceded 15-plus years to my friend. His kids would be in the latter years of secondary education while my boy was still an infant.

Another way of putting it might be that he would have much of the hard work done while I was still attempting to get to grips with how to fasten a nappy.

I would be dishonest if I did not admit that there were moments when I wondered if it all would have been a bit easier if I was a younger man. On the other hand, having a bit more experience, financial stability and emotional maturity has clearly helped on the journey.

Now I have got to the point where, while the worry never dissipates, the burden of physical effort has eased. My son has his circle of friends at school and in our estate to occupy his time.

He doesn’t really want his silly old daddy hanging around. I’m happy enough to watch on from afar on my comfy spot on the sofa.

Which makes it all the more surprising on a fine and warm Saturday evening when my son asks: "Will you play with me daddy?”

I haven’t heard this in a long time.

“What about your friends?” I ask.

“There’s nobody about tonight,” he says. “I want to play with you.”

And so, once more, I summon strength from my tired muscles and haul my aching bones off the sofa. My boy is kicking a ball around the back garden.

“What will we play son?”

“Can you make up a game daddy? Like you used to do.”

It is clear this is going to take mental, as well as physical, exertion. My first effort is to invent a catching game which is a variant of piggy-in-the-middle, but it doesn’t really work with two people so is quickly abandoned.

Next is a game where he is on the swing and I throw the ball at him. The object is for him to kick it back and me to catch the ball before it touches the ground.

It sounds a bit clumsy but is actually quite compelling and puts in the time for about 45 minutes.

Various throwing challenges follow before I spot an old metal bucket underneath the trees in the back garden. I clean it and the sport of bucketball is quickly invented (patent pending).

The bucket is set some distance away and we take turns in throwing the ball at it. Two points are awarded for hitting it, five for knocking it over and 10 if the ball can be landed inside (a remote prospect as the ball seems to be bigger than the bucket). A nominal winning points target is set and off we go.

I am surprised by how quickly we are both drawn into such a basic contest. I watch the concentration on my son’s face when he throws and the bouncing excitement he displays when scoring points.

Trash-talking quickly becomes another important element. We trade insults, attempt to put each other off and celebrate wildly the other’s failures.

I tell my son that he has cracked under the pressure, he makes a choking gesture when I miss, I improvise a celebratory dance in front of him when I strike the bucket.

As the game nears its conclusion, I notice that I am covered in sweat. One further hit for either of us will ensure victory. However, it is my turn and I’m confident of success.

I hesitate slightly before I throw, noticing my son nearby. He is too excited to stand still and his face is beaming with happiness. It reminds me of when he was a younger boy.

I take a moment and make my throw. The ball sails to the left of the bucket. My son lets out a yelp of excitement. He takes his turn and strikes the bucket, concluding the game.

“In your face daddy! In your face!” he yells before running off to tell his mother about the victory.

I smile as I clear up. I know that I will be sore in the morning.