Moving to New Zealand in 2012, Rowan rarely expressed much interest in resuming his soccer career, and his mother's heart returned to its natural resting place further down the body. She resigned herself far more happily to a life watching her son reading books and helping old ladies cross the road.
A month ago, Rowan came home monstrously excited. He was playing Rippa rugby. His mother heard only the word rugby which, for many New Zealand mothers since 1981, is a synonym for Auschwitz.
Rippa, however, is a much milder thing.
There are no bone-jarring tackles or head injuries, it is really all about bobbing and weaving and sprinting.
But still the mother's heart remained in her mouth.
Did I mention last Monday Rowan scored twice in an 11-all draw with Liberton? Though he did let a defender through after his second try when he badgered the referee to see if the man with pen and pad had copied down the details.
The Zinzan Brooke syndrome.
But as someone in Grimm's Fairy Tales once said, physical violence and near-death experiences come in threes.
What would be Rowan's third three? His mother is working at the Fortune Theatre, where Peter King thrives in a secondary career of designing sets.
He is principally known, of course, for his trolley derby skills, both as a ruthless driver and Da Vinci-like designer.
One morning by the photocopying machine, Peter offered to build Rowan a trolley for the annual Dunedin Trolley Derby.
This was an act of extreme generosity, and Rowan's mother knew her son would be beside himself when he heard the news, hence she thanked Peter profusely and said it was the most wonderful deed she had heard of since Oprah gave away a VW Golf to every single member of her studio audience in 2012.
Chicago!
But her heart raced back into her mouth again, and until the race, last Sunday in Manor Pl, she did not sleep a wink.
''Please make the trolley slow,'' she pleaded with Peter.
''Rowan is small but he is fearless,'' I whispered to Peter behind cupped hand.
''Whang in some turbos. And NO brakes.''
Actually I didn't say that. You have to have brakes. But Rowan's mother surveyed the course and noted that while there was a flat slowing-down area after the hill, and a barrier at the end, she could still see Rowan, adrenalised to the eyeballs, crashing through the barrier and finishing up somewhere near the Forsyth Barr Stadium.
His trolley, after all, had been built by the finest designer since Bruce McLaren.
The three-wheeled weapon of mass eruption was picked up four days out from the race and a trial was held on a benign hill in St Clair.
Six runs, Rowan was spilled out twice, tossed across the road like a discarded Pebbles packet.
Knee and elbow pads were immediately added to the racing gloves and helmet.
There was loose talk of a ski suit for final insurance. And even looser talk of covering the boy in bubble wrap.
The mother was heavily medicated, nobody could understand a word she was saying.
Practice runs began at midday, and looking back at it now, it is hard for me to remember which of Rowan's four crashes in four practice runs were the most aesthetically spectacular.
Probably the first, where he actually rolled right over, a manoeuvre that reminded many watchers of Steve McQueen in the movie R.
Team Rowan voted and sensibly chose the Fernhill Community Group sausage sizzle over participation in the race proper. Rowan will be better for the experience; there were some battle-hardened little bleeders out there last Sunday.
There's still Rippa rugby. And the mother is fine.
Roy Colbert is a Dunedin writer.
