You'll Never Get This Time Back

“Neel, why didn’t you come to practice today?”

“Sorry, Greg. I couldn’t make it. Just didn’t feel like training today.”

“Neel, you know the policy around missing training. You’ve been so consistent in the past. Please don’t miss any more sessions until the end of the season. You’re a key player, and the team needs you.”

“Thanks, Greg. I have a lot going on these days, and I’m actually not sure I’m going to be able to continue with the team. I may have to stop playing.”

There was a long pause.

“Neel, it sounds like you’re going through something, so I’ll give you some time to think about what you’re saying and whether you really mean it. But I’ll leave you with one thing…”

And then he said something that has stayed with me for nearly three decades.

“You’ll never get this time back. This opportunity to play for a top youth club in Southern California, alongside talented teammates who are more like family. In a short time, this will all be gone, and it won’t come back. So take advantage of this time. Don’t let it slip away for things that don’t matter.”

“Thanks, Coach. I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

I never did.

And that, as it turns out, is a big part of this story.

The good old days (that I didn't know were the good old days)

I was 17 years old, sitting at home in Huntington Beach, California. I had been playing organised football (soccer) since I was four and had been involved in competitive club football from the age of ten. For much of that time, I played for Orange Coast United, a respected club based in Newport Beach, California.

My coach for most of those years was a gentleman named Greg Cipolla. To this day, Greg remains the best competitive sports coach I’ve ever had. He taught us discipline, teamwork, mental strength and focus without making any of it feel like a lecture. He understood that every player learned differently and had an extraordinary ability to connect with each of us in a way that brought out our best.

We won the Coast Soccer League multiple times and finished first in tournaments across the United States. But our greatest achievement had little to do with trophies.

Greg created an environment that felt more like a family than a football team.

We genuinely enjoyed being around one another, both on and off the pitch. We hung out at the beach, attempted to meet girls, went paintballing, attended local concerts and generally roamed around in packs like we owned Southern California. We were the “cool” footballers. We were good at our sport, we knew it, and we were quite happy for everyone else to know it too.

Our families were just as involved. Tournaments became entire weekend affairs, regardless of whether we won or lost. There were jacuzzi parties, loud music blasting from hotel rooms, and parents socialising as enthusiastically as their children.

It was a wonderful time. Looking back, I can see that now.

At 17, however, I had other priorities.

I'd got my driving licence the year before and discovered the joys of staying out late, hanging out with new friends, experimenting with alcohol and attending house parties. Suddenly, two or three intense training sessions a week and weekend matches weren't quite as appealing as driving to Tijuana, Mexico, and nearly getting arrested.

In retrospect, perhaps the more sensible option was to stick with football.

But hindsight is a wonderful thing, especially when you're old enough to realise how foolish you were when you thought you knew everything.

The truth is that I took it all for granted.

I'd spent years playing in a highly competitive environment, surrounded by talented teammates, travelling around the country for tournaments and being part of a group of 21 players whose friendships extended well beyond the pitch. We had families who felt like one big extended family and a coach who challenged us, encouraged us and cared for us as though we were his own children.

And I assumed it would always be there.

I assumed I could walk away for a while, do my own thing, and return whenever I felt like it.

So I ignored Greg's advice. I convinced myself that I no longer needed youth football, persuaded my parents to accept my decision, and stopped answering Greg's calls.

A few months later, the season ended. I never returned to competitive club football.

And life moved on.

The sentence that got louder with age

At the time, Greg's words didn't mean much to me.

I was a 17-year-old with a reasonably full social, sporting and academic life. I had plenty to look forward to and couldn't imagine why I should feel particularly concerned about giving up one part of it.

But something about that conversation stayed with me.

“You’ll never get this time back.”

At 46, I understand those words in a way that my teenage self simply couldn't.

One of my favourite things to watch on streaming platforms is sports documentaries. And every so often, I'll find myself watching footage of footballers in their youth teams: winning tournaments, celebrating with teammates, parents cheering from the sidelines, and groups of young players displaying that unmistakable swagger that comes from being part of a really good team.

And something happens.

My heart gets heavy. My eyes start to fill.

It's not because I wish I'd become a professional footballer or wonder what might have happened had I continued playing. It's because those scenes take me straight back to a time in my life that I didn't fully appreciate while I was living it.

I remember the training sessions, the anticipation of the big match at the weekend, the excitement in the house on match mornings, and the celebrations after a tournament victory. I remember hanging around the hotel pool with my teammates, reliving every highlight and mistake from the match over greasy, cheesy pizza and ice-cold Cherry Coke.

I remember the friendships. The laughter. The feeling of belonging to something bigger than myself.

I can almost feel it again.

And then I hear Greg's voice.

“You’ll never get this time back.”

He was right.

I should have completed that season, played the final one, and headed off to university knowing that I'd made the most of the opportunity I'd been given. Instead, I traded those experiences for the promise of a few more nights out with friends.

There's nothing wrong with having fun with your friends. But I can't tell you much about what I did while loitering around town in 1997 and 1998.

I can tell you a great deal about those football tournaments.

The irony is that the years I thought were interchangeable have become some of my most treasured memories. My time at Orange Coast United helped shape the person I became, fuelled a love of sport that eventually became my career, and gave my family countless memories.

I walked away believing I was giving up something I could always return to.

I didn't realise I was closing a chapter that would never be repeated.

And now, almost three decades later, I'm being given another opportunity to learn the same lesson.

This time, the stakes feel considerably higher.

Enter Leela. And the second chance I didn't know I needed.

When people with older children see me with my baby daughter, Leela, I often hear some variation of the same message:

“Enjoy this time. They grow up so quickly. You'll never get it back.”

It's usually accompanied by a wistful smile, a look at Leela, and perhaps a little extra time spent playing with her before handing her back to me.

These parents know something I don't. Or, more accurately, they know something I understand intellectually but haven't yet fully accepted emotionally.

This phase of childhood is temporary.

Right now, Leela is still at an age when she sees her parents as her entire world. She can't speak, but she communicates so much through her expressions, gestures, laughter and those pure, innocent smiles that seem capable of dissolving whatever stress I might have carried home.

She doesn't care about my job title, my professional achievements, my inbox or whether I've had a productive day. She doesn't care whether I've been in back-to-back meetings or have a hundred things left to do.

She just wants us.

Our love. Our attention. Our presence.

And, of course, her mother's milk.

Leela arrived on 8 January 2026, and life changed in all the ways you'd expect when you become a parent for the first time. Almost overnight, a life that had revolved around my own routines, ambitions and interests began revolving around this tiny human being.

She's there when I wake up. She's there when I come home from work. She's there in the background when I call Avantika during the day, making noises that occasionally compete with whatever important conversation I'm trying to have. And even when she's not physically around, she's present in my thoughts and in the countless conversations I have with my wife, family and friends.

She has become an extraordinary source of light and love in our home.

I feel incredibly fortunate to be her father.

And yet, here's the uncomfortable truth: being fortunate enough to have something wonderful in your life doesn't automatically mean you know how to appreciate it.

I should know. I've already made that mistake once.

Because it isn't just 17-year-old Neel who can be immature, self-centred and convinced that he knows better.

Forty-six-year-old Neel is perfectly capable of the same behaviour.

The great illusion of “it will always be like this”

Before Leela arrived, I had a pretty good life. I enjoyed the freedom to design my days around the things that mattered to me.

My mornings were often filled with exercise and meditation. My work was purposeful and engaging. My evenings might involve padel, a play, dinner with friends or simply stretching out on the couch and watching something on television. Weekends were opportunities to do whatever I fancied.

I valued that freedom, and I still do.

But when Leela came along, the rhythms of our lives changed. Our time, energy and attention had to be shared in ways they hadn't been before. Spontaneity became more complicated. Even the simple act of leaving the house required considerably more planning.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, I found myself confronting a familiar temptation.

The temptation to believe that things would always be as they are now.

That Leela would always be my little princess who lights up when Papa walks through the door. That she'd always want to be carried around, read to, played with and taken on little adventures. That there would always be time to spend with her tomorrow, next week, next month or next year.

This belief is remarkably convenient.

It makes it easier to justify spending an extra couple of hours at the office rather than getting home to help with the daily adventures of eating, nappy changes and naps.

It makes it easier to extend a business trip by a day or two to explore a place I've visited several times before, rather than return home and take Leela somewhere new, somewhere she's never seen.

It makes it easier to convince myself that I need some “me time” on the couch, scrolling through my phone or binge-watching something on Netflix, rather than sitting beside my daughter as she explores her toys or reading her a book.

None of these things is inherently wrong. Work matters. Personal time matters. Rest matters. And being a parent doesn't mean abandoning every other part of your identity.

The problem is what happens when the things that can wait begin taking priority over the things that cannot.

The thought that “it will always be like this” allows me to pretend that these choices have no real cost. I can spend today doing something else because, in my mind, there will always be another day to make up for it.

But what if there isn't?

Not in the dramatic sense that something terrible is about to happen. Simply in the ordinary, unavoidable sense that time moves forward, children grow, and life changes whether we are paying attention or not.

I've seen it with friends whose children are now teenagers, beginning to establish their independence and develop worlds of their own. When they see Avantika and me holding Leela, there's sometimes a sweetness in their expressions, a little longing for the days when their own children were this small.

And I understand why.

I've also seen children who once loved spending time with their “Funcle Neel” grow older and become considerably less interested in acknowledging my presence when I visit their homes.

They haven't stopped loving me. They've simply grown up. Their interests have changed, their friendships have expanded, and their lives no longer revolve around the adults who once entertained them.

That's how it's supposed to work.

But some part of me still wants to believe that Leela will be different. That she'll always want to spend time with me, that she'll never outgrow our little routines, and that somehow, our relationship will remain frozen in this beautiful phase.

Of course, it won't.

And the sooner I accept that, the better father I can become.

A lesson I learned when it was too late

Perhaps this lesson is becoming more difficult to ignore because I've experienced another of life's unavoidable truths.

For years, I watched the parents of friends grow older. Some passed away. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I carried the assumption that it wouldn't happen to me. Not yet. Not my family.

Until my father, Kishor, passed away on 31 March 2024.

There is something profoundly different about knowing that life is temporary and experiencing the permanence of a loss yourself. You can understand the idea intellectually for decades and still find yourself unprepared for what it means when the day finally comes.

You realise that there are conversations you can no longer have, questions you can no longer ask, and ordinary moments you would give almost anything to experience again.

You also realise that the future you had quietly assumed was waiting for you has changed.

The dinner you thought you'd have next month. The phone call you meant to make. The visit you kept postponing. The chance to sit together and talk about nothing in particular.

You thought there would be time.

Sometimes, there isn't.

I'm not suggesting that we should live in fear of losing the people we love. That would be an exhausting and deeply unhappy way to move through life.

But I do think we need to be honest with ourselves about the assumptions we make. We behave as though the people we love will remain exactly as they are, the opportunities we have will remain available, and the experiences we keep postponing will be waiting for us whenever we're ready.

We know that's not true.

And yet, we live as though it is.

Perhaps that's simply part of being human. We get comfortable. We become distracted. We chase the next achievement, the next experience, the next little hit of entertainment. We assume that what matters most will still be there when we've finished with everything else.

Until one day, it isn't.

The things I remember. And the things I don't.

One of the most revealing things about looking back at my youth football days is how clearly I remember the experiences I nearly gave up.

I can't recall most of the nights I spent driving around town with friends in 1997 and 1998. I have only vague memories of the parties, the conversations and the hours I spent doing things that seemed so important at the time.

But I remember the football tournaments.

I remember the celebrations, the teammates, the atmosphere, the families and the feeling of belonging to that group.

And now, with Leela, I'm noticing the same pattern emerging in real time.

I barely remember most of the things I've watched while scrolling through YouTube on my phone or the random emails I've answered at work when I could have been spending time with her.

But I remember the excited squeal that greets me when I walk through the door after work.

I remember how adorable she looks sitting in her high chair, wearing her pink bib with food smeared across her face, completely unconcerned with the fact that she's created a rather impressive mess.

I remember how much she loves riding up and down the lift with me because there are mirrors everywhere and she can look at the two of us together. It doesn't take much to entertain her. Apparently, being trapped in a mirrored box with Papa is premium entertainment.

I remember our long walks through the streets of Mumbai, discovering little things along the way. The sounds, the people, the places. The simple pleasure of being out together with no particular agenda other than experiencing the world.

These moments are not grand achievements. There are no trophies, medals or certificates at the end of them. Nobody is going to write a report on how well I performed as a father during a Tuesday evening walk.

But I suspect these are the moments that will matter most when I look back.

And that is what makes this so important.

The things that matter most in our lives are often happening quietly, in the background, while we are busy looking elsewhere.

We don't always recognise their significance while we're living them. Sometimes, we only understand what we had after it has changed.

You’ll never get this time back.

I think about Greg's advice often now.

At 17, I heard it and ignored it. I convinced myself that I had better things to do, that football would always be there, and that I could return to it whenever I wanted.

I was wrong.

I had the privilege of being part of something special, and instead of appreciating it, I walked away because something else seemed more appealing in the moment.

I'm not going to spend the rest of my life regretting that decision. There is little value in doing so, and my life has taken me in directions I could never have imagined back then. But I can learn from it.

And I can make a different choice now.

I will have plenty of time in my life to lie on the couch, scroll through my phone, watch television, travel to familiar places and do all the other things that will still be available to me in the years ahead.

But I won't have unlimited time to discover the world through Leela's eyes. I won't have unlimited time to watch her learn something new, to see her face light up when she discovers a new place, or to experience the particular magic of being the person she runs towards when she needs comfort, reassurance or a little adventure.

This version of Leela will not last forever.

One day, she won't need me to carry her through the streets of Mumbai. She won't need me to entertain her in the lift. She won't want me to read her the same book over and over again, even if I have perfected every voice and dramatic pause.

One day, she'll have her own friends, interests, ambitions and adventures. She'll build a life that doesn't revolve around me.

And if I've done my job well, she'll be ready for that life.

But I don't want to reach that point and realise that I spent too much of the time I had with her wishing I were somewhere else.

I don't want to look back and remember the emails I answered instead of the games we played, the extra hours I spent at the office instead of the evenings I could have spent at home, or the hours lost to a screen while my daughter was right there, ready to share her little world with me.

I want to remember the moments.

Not because I intend to be a perfect father. I won't be. I'll get distracted, make mistakes, lose patience and occasionally need a little time to myself. That's life, and I don't think the answer is to feel guilty about every minute we spend doing something for ourselves.

The answer, I think, is to become more conscious of the choices we're making.

To recognise when we're giving our time to something that genuinely matters and when we're simply filling it because it's easier than being present.

To stop assuming that the things we love will remain exactly as they are.

And to remember that the people we love don't need us to be extraordinary every day. Often, they just need us to be there.

You'll never get this time back.

Not the years of youth football. Not the years when your children are small. Not the years when your parents are still around to call. Not the seasons of a relationship, a friendship, a career or a life that, while you're living it, can feel as though it will go on indefinitely.

There will always be another email. Another meeting. Another episode. Another opportunity to do something that can probably wait until tomorrow.

But there won't always be another chance to experience this particular moment, with these particular people, in this particular phase of your life.

And that is worth remembering.

Thank you, Coach Greg, for a lesson I wasn't ready to learn at 17 but am finally beginning to understand at 46.

I wish I'd listened to you then.

I'm listening now.

And this time, I don't want to let the moment pass me by.