Naturally not all the kids were bubbly, excited little cherubs. One group was off kicking a ball around and standing sulking, right in the middle of their fun, was the Spawn of Satan.
And she was performing, if you know what I mean.
No amount of coaxing from dad was going to shift her from her attention-seeking mood, which seemed to get worse with regular screeches every time what I presumed were her brothers raced by within a mile of her sulking spot.
Mrs P and I exchanged glances as we aimed for a spot to throw a ball for George.
"She's probably tired," my beloved offered as another screech threatened to drown out the stereo in the car park and upset the walking rhythm of the Lycra ladies.
"Or she's just a little shit," I said to myself before remembering philosophically all of ours had probably behaved somewhat similar at some time in their early years. Sound familiar?
Anyway.
We've found a spot and Mrs P is lining up the first throw. George is looking apprehensive.
Actually I don't really know how a dog looks apprehensive but I sort of sensed it. And with good reason.
Mrs P is not known for her throwing abilities. In fact, if I'm honest, she is a bit of a shocker.
Naturally because I'm a bloke and we thrive on solving problems - chapter one in that book Men Are From Mars; Women Are From Venus. Reading the book equals 10 Brownie points. Understanding it all equals a million - I have acted.
I've bought Mrs P one of those throwers. You may have seen them. It's a long bendy thing with a ball holder at the end. Basically you just hold the end and throw like you would normally. The ball comes out at a great rate of knots and goes a lot further.
Simple. Or rather it should have been.
Mrs P's first effort was somewhat encouraging. In that it went forward.
"This time really give it a heave," I suggested, calling on all my experience as 1975 Greymouth Intermediate School softball team first baseman.
Big mistake.
She launched into the attempt with much gusto but got her timing all wrong and ended up facing one way while her throwing arm, er, well, didn't.
The end result was the ball hurtling about 30 metres . . . sideways.
What made it all the more memorable for all the wrong reasons was after a bounce to take the sting out of it, it hit the screeching, sulking, pain in the . . . oops, I mean little girl.
And off she went. Again.
I quickly went over with George to offer apologies while she cried and took my medicine from the exasperated dad who suggested in less than subtle terms I needed to watch where I was throwing.
I thought about shifting the blame on to Mrs P in a kind of "it wasn't me" way but it would have seemed a pretty pathetic excuse because she was nowhere to be seen.
It seems the second the ball had headed towards the screeching kid she'd legged it the other way fast.
This was confirmed 10 minutes later as George and I trudged home, tails between our legs after the telling off, and spotted Mrs P some way in the distance walking into our driveway.
As I walked the final hundred metres myself I thought the entire business had brought about one positive outcome.
If Mrs P ever wanted to enter the Masters Olympics she shouldn't bother training for the throwing events.
But she'd be a shoo-in for the running.
■ Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to kevin.page@nzme.co.nz .
