I can't begin to describe fully just how painful it is to watch Jakob on the soccer field.

He has mastered the shuffle and complete disinterest of a bent over, crotchety 90 year old waiting for a jello treat (or my mother with a plate of vegetables in front of her). The only time he came close to the ball was when he was lying down on the field and it just happened to pass by him. But rather than feebly lift his foot to try to give it a kick, he would instead roll over and face the other direction. As if the ball, or the 11 kids chasing it en masse, were all just part of an exceptionally boring dream.

When he was finally roused to action by the coach and possibly the threat of a foot in his face, he limped with arms flailing wildly over to me to tell me that he thought his foot was broken.

Jakob would make a great reality TV star.