"I've lost my touch," my red-haired son said to me and dumped the skateboard at my feet.

His words sounded drastic to my ears. After all, it had only been six weeks since he'd attempted an olley or tried to grind some handrail. Six weeks without any time on his skateboard. It might as well have been an eternity to my fourteen year old son. Perhaps I need to explain.

Earlier this year as he waited outside the school for his bus, a half-crazed young man punched my son in the face, more specifically, right in the nose. Of course it broke. The attack was completely unprovoked. There were witnesses and my son wasn't the only boy assaulted. One other red-head had his nose punched and broken, too. Rather than go into the whole crazy day, I'll jump all that and skip straight to what the doctor decided to do later.

After the swelling reduced and the doctor had a look at my son's nose, the doc left it up to me. My son could breathe quite normally and apart from an obvious swing to the left his nose looked completely normal. I decided he needed it fixed. I didn't want to know how it didn't bother him, but it meant going under general anesthetic and rebreaking the nose, which had its own risks.

We went ahead with the operation. My son came out from under the influence quickly. I knew he felt better by the question he asked me. Before the surgery the doctor marked which way my son's nose swung in red felt pen. As the cloudiness cleared from his eyes he asked me, "Do I still have a red arrow on my forehead?" But then the bad news.

The female doctor gave my son stern instructions not to engage in any sporting activity for the following six weeks. You could see the weight this news carried as my son's shoulders slumped and he asked, several times, about specific activities he just about lives and breathes. The answer every time was a firm but simple no. No skateboarding, no bike riding, no basketball, or cricket, or football, or running around with his mates. It felt more than he could carry.

Living with an active son who's suddenly had his wings stripped is not an easy thing. Not only did his natural aggression have no outlet, but the poor kid felt fine. To not have the freedom to run and jump and throw things around felt like a prison sentence.

For me the six weeks stretch out to the longest wait I've ever experienced.

Finally, the day arrived, the doctor checked and my son's nose passed inspection. He had permission to play and run again. But what did he learn? That he'd lost his touch. Lack of practice took its toll. I worked hard to encourage him to simply push through the obstacle and get back into things again. He did. He worked on his skating and his basketball. He applied himself diligently each evening out the front of the house. He's in the basketball team now. He's kind of lost interest in the skateboarding, again, but he learnt something and even admitted it to me the other day.

Driving along in the car he said to me, "In a way it was good to have a break from basketball. It made me realise that's what I want to do. And it made me see how important practice is." He turned to me and said, "I want to be the best basketball player ever." I smiled and told him if he just keeps practicing he's most likely to be exactly that.

I suppose this entry could apply to anyone who writes. Maybe a break can do you some good, too. It might fine tune exactly what you want to pursue. But that good old standard of practice comes back again and again. That's all I have to say tonight.