Not just a walk in the park

I took baby Frank to his first football match yesterday. The occasion came upon us rather unexpectedly. We were walking through Cringle Fields Park heading for nowhere in particular (well, I was walking, Frankie was fast asleep in his pram) when I heard some shouts from the field behind the biscuit factory. Closer inspection revealed goalnets set up, and figures in brightly coloured shirts chasing each other around, seemingly marshalled by a portly whistle-wielding figure in black . A Sunday League match! Clearly we had no option but to attend.

No longer a man wandering aimlessly through a public park, I became a man with a mission. My eyes lit up with a zealous gleam and my pace quickened, dragging the pushchair across the muddy field and towards the touchline, arriving just in time to see a player in a garish red shirt race away from several plodding green-clad defenders and plant his shot expertly into the bottom corner. If the goal was of a decent quality, the celebration was pure Premiership: the scorer, shirt pulled inside-out over the face, raced to the corner flag, mud-sliding the last few yards before landing on his back to be mobbed by his ecstatic team mates. The three men and a dog assembled on that part of the touchline looked on quizzically. I think the dog may have licked its bollocks in appreciation.

The game recommenced, with the reds (mostly Asian, with some of maybe Turkish descent) employing an intricate passing game, all feints, dribbles and unnecessary stepovers, and the greens (burlier and mostly white) countering with a game based on tackling, chasing hard, and booting the ball as high and as hard as possible in the general direction of the opposing goal. It was like watching England against- well, just about anyone really. An interesting clash of styles, as Barry Davies would have said if he was there. I made sure Frankie had a decent view and prepared to take in the last fifteen minutes. We were supporting the Reds of course- not only were they the ones with the most attractive style, but also they seemed to be the local outfit- I had some of their players shouting 'Come on Levenshulme!'.

Of course, as soon as we started supporting them, Levenshulme became rubbish (I should have known- the exact same thing happened with Newcastle United in 1978). After scoring another nice goal to establish a seemingly unassailable 3-1 lead (I applauded, which appeared to be a slight breach of etiquette at this level,- the gesture attracted some quizzical glances from the three men and a dog nearby) the Reds contracted a fatal, collective attack of the wobbles, exemplified by the goalkeeper, who started flapping at imaginary balls in mid-air while letting the real one escape his grasp. Astonishingly by full-time the visitors (who I had by now gathered were from nearby Sale) had turned the game around to run out 4-3 winners. I trudged away from the touchline feeling quite despondent, reflecting on how easy it is to develop an attachment to a football team; especially one with a nice line in crowd-pleasing ball-wizardry, and a penchant for turning certain victory into heartwrenching defeat with 10 minutes of spectacular ineptitude.

And how did young Frankie react to his first live exposure to the beautiful game? Well, not with any major display of enthusiasm it has to be said- although he was certainly awake at least some of the time, and he did seem to emit an appreciative gurgle when the Levenshulme Reds' tricky number eight performed an elegant double shimmy, leaving the brutish Sale centre half sliding onto his backside just in front of us. It was a knowledgeable sort of gurgle, as befits a baby of half-Geordie, half-Merseyside extraction. In fact I know exactly what he was saying, because (in much the same way that mothers can understand every nuance of every baby's cry) dads have an innate ability to translate into grown-up speech any noises emanating from their infant offspring during football matches. So I can reveal that what the boy Frankie said to me was, 'That's another lovely move there from the Levenshulme linkman, but there's a lack of end-product in the final third, and you have to worry about their naivety at the back. This game won't be over till the fat lady sings'.

An expert piece of punditry, then. I may put a call through to the BBC, and we could be seeing baby Frank lining up on the couch with Alan Hansen to offer expert analysis of an England international some time soon. Well I know I'm his dad and everything, but admit it- the boy could hardly do a worse job than Ian Wright, now could he?

Comments

[Paul]

Probably not, and at least you'd ensure he was dressed appropriately.

Your son might even cry less if England lost too.

[jonathan]

Quite right. No way any son of mine is lounging around on national TV with his shirt hanging out. Although if it is left to me to dress him, there is every possibility it may be back to front- due to the unwritten rule of babyclothing which says all the shirts have to have buttons down the back. I have no idea why.

And those click-pop things (what are they called again- press studs!) are a pain in the arse as well. Every garment, no matter how tiny, features about fourteen of them- and you always get to the end and find you have missed one somewhere (it is hiding up a crevice, or the baby has eaten it), so you have to start again. Bloody marvellous. Like trying to gift-wrap a live, writhing octopus.

[Mrs Baker]

Not on your nelly ! Frankie will be too busy performing at The Bridgewater Hall to be doing any football commentary !!!