Feature article on kids' football in The Times, 2005
It's a goal! A one yard tap-in, miss-hit at that, but stand well back - here comes the celebration. The kid charges down the pitch, head thrown back, arms out-stretched. I hope he's not going to do what I think he is. Oh God, he has. He's slid on his knees across a very hard and dry sports hall floor. The sobs echo around the room while someone sends for a brush to clean up the anatomical debris.
I'm here because my two lads, aged five and seven, are all grown-up now. They're through with three-and-your-ins with me in the back garden. They want the real thing - full kit, proper coaching, big matches, water bottles, more water bottles. So, it's another of life's milestones. For them, and for me too. I've made it at last, I'm soccerdad.
Millions of us are at it, mums too. All of us spending Saturdays or Sundays (or both) on the touch-line, thinking it was only five minutes ago when we were out there ourselves. The kids have only just kicked-off but, at best, it's half-time for us.
We arrive at the sports centre early on a Saturday morning, 8.30 early. Manchester United and Arsenal shirts begin to file past. I count four Rooneys, three v. Nistelrooys, two Henrys and no Djemba-Djembas. Two kids are wearing Brazil shirts with 'Carlos' printed across their skinny shoulders. I despair, shake my head. Where's the originality of thought? Who's rooting for the underdog? Then I realise that my eldest is - replete in the kit of our local Coca Cola League Two club. A group has gathered around him. They might be laughing. That'll build his character. Or destroy it. I managed okay didn't I - didn't I?
I notice that all the kits are up-to-date and brand-new. No Billy Caspers here, snivelling into their cuffs, hanging on to shorts the size of bed sheets. I'm almost nostalgic for a bit of poverty, some of that make-do spirit. Where have all the poor people gone? Maybe a kid's soccer kit is now viewed as one of life's essentials like a mobile phone, DVD player, satellite television and four cans of Special Brew. There's probably a form you can get from the Post Office to make a claim.
The coach has them dribbling slowly to the centre of the hall and back again. After five minutes of this, the kids race en masse to a raft of plastic water bottles at the side. They do this again after a few minutes of playing three-yard passes to one another. These kids are thirsty. Must be hard work all that passing. Now, when I was a kid, you'd go through six weeks of school holidays bombing around on your Chopper in scorching heat and survive adequately on a few sips of blue pop. Whole world's gone soft.
Teams are picked and Jack, a lad in my youngest's class at school, is thrown a blue bib. It's a man-sized one and comes down to his knees. Being five is a funny age. Some, like my son, are already quite savvy (he thinks he's black and American and from the 'hood, God help us) while others, like Jack, are still dreaming of Lego castles and believe Spud from Bob the Builder is a kind of deity. Poor Jack. As the game progresses wildly around him, he wanders aimlessly, the lost boy at Waterloo Station. He is so placid amid the chaos, it almost forms a religious tableaux. This notion is enhanced considerably by the cassock he is wearing and the way he fiddles with his hands beneath it. He's probably got some rosary beads under there.
After the first match has finished, they sit down, take a rest and gulp madly on their logo-emblazoned bottles. It is clearly the absolute rules of childhood that if you gather more than six together in one place at least one of them will have a nosebleed. Ryan starts. He's kneeling down in front of my son. No fear, my lad will sort him out, get some help. We've brought him up well. The blood continues to flow. My son stares. And carries on staring. By now, Ryan's shirt has gone from England home to England away. My kid remains unmoved. Finally, one of the others gets up and walks languidly over to Coach: ''Sir, I think Ryan's dying.''
Being new to the gang of dads and mums strung along the side, I'm not sure
of the proper etiquette. I suppose I should make an effort. I recognise one
of the dads from school and notice that his son is left-footed. I say the thought
aloud: ''Left-footed, eh?''
''He's two-footed actually.''
It's soon clear which kids have had extra-curricular coaching from their dads. When the ball strays into their path they begin a complex series of manoeuvres around it that seem based on some mathematical formula, such is the slide-rule precision. The madding crowd charging after the ball holds no respect for such finesse. Laughing like banshees, they crash the ball away, anywhere, anyhow. The kid looks at his dad, bewildered: 'You never warned me about that lot.'
I'm desperate not to be Competitive Dad but something is bothering me out there.
My eldest has been told to play in defence. But he's dropped so deep that he's
actually behind the goalkeeper, almost tangled up in the netting. I don't know
whether to offer him some advice or laugh it off. Eventually, I wave him forward.
Hell, he thinks I'm beckoning him over. As one of his opponents races towards
goal, he ignores him completely and saunters over to me. ''What, dad?''
''You're playing too deep.''
Obviously, he doesn't understand what I'm saying. As he waits for me to explain
further, the lad behind him slots the ball home and the cheese-grating of the
knees begins all over again.
''Dad,'' he moans. ''I could have saved that then if you hadn't shouted me over.''
A few minutes later, the whistle blows and the session for the under-eights
finishes. My lad comes over, red-faced and out of puff.
"Did you enjoy that?'' I ask.
''Yeah, but I'm really thirsty.''