My son’s first faltering steps in football

‘The ball,’ I said, quietly. ‘Kick the ball, pet. With your foot.’

We’ve arrived at football practice where a very patient trainer has set his infant charges to work on their first challenge: kicking a ball. There are, it turns out, a million steps toward becoming a professional footballer, and my son is taking his time with the first two or three.

On the way there, I’d found myself hoping he’d be the best at football. Not in the world, you understand – at least not immediately – but better than the other toddlers. I imagined dog walkers stopping in their tracks, slowly removing their sunglasses in awe at the tiny, ginger blur weaving through his demoralised, weeping opponents.

Part of this was fatherly pride, and part of it was a shameful hope of living vicariously. Like most kids who played avidly but were never particularly good, being the best at football was my first real dream. As a boy, my fantasies were many and detailed; peeling away from the right back to trap a cross-field ball in the crook of my instep before pummelling it into AC Milan’s net in the Champion’s League final; nutmegging world-class defenders who were playing for Brazil, but always bore a striking resemblance to the bigger, better lads I didn’t like in school; giving post-match press conferences in which I charmed and seduced the baying press. ‘No wonder he convinced Jet from Gladiators to marry him,’ they’d write, ‘for today he has won our hearts as well.’

As you grow up, you stop fantasising about footballing prowess – and letters are sent from Jet’s publicist politely declining your proposals – but, if we’re honest, some kernel remains for every fan. It’s why we scream at the world’s most dedicated and talented athletes, with a sincere belief that we have wisdom to offer. I’ve stood in the stands loudly imploring these freaks of fitness to work harder, minutes after deciding not to tie my shoelace because the last time I bent down from a standing position, my vertebrae made a clicking noise I’d prefer not to repeat.

My son, however, is limber, young and good with the ball at his feet. He’s just unconvinced about whether it should remain there. At the beginning, every two or three steps, he decided it would be more efficient if he was carrying it, or picking up the cones, or falling over.

By session’s end, the only dog walkers who’d stopped were those forced to when he shouted, ‘Doggeeeee!’ and galloped toward them so he could pet their spaniels. He did this twice, leaving the field of play to do so each time, entirely resistant to my advice that such behaviour would be a handicap for his playing career. But, I noticed with an intense burn of paternal pride, he ran to those dogs while staying on his feet, and without picking up the ball once. The journey to greatness may be one of a million steps, but he can already take a dozen without falling over. He’s clearly a natural.

Follow Séamas on Twitter @shockproofbeats