The Beautiful Game

If you hail from the Sceptred Isle, you will know that this is how we describe the wonderful sport of football. Or at least, how some people describe it. Its charms had been largely lost on me until today, when my son Titus played his first tournament and scored a winning goal. I couldn't hold back the tears of pride from streaming down my face. Luckily, he couldn't see me. He is too young to be embarrassed by displays of maternal emotion, but he may well have been distracted, thinking I had lost my purse, stubbed my toe or dropped my last piece of chewing gum inadvertently down the toilet. His team did not win overall, but also didn't come last, which was a relief, as Titus is a terrible loser. Secretly I understand this, for who actually likes losing? And what is all this guff about the winning not mattering, only the participation? Of course we play to win. Still, I had to prime him beforehand not to get upset in the face of defeat. The only English football player to achieve notoriety - and the wrong sort at that - for blubbing on the pitch was the late Paul Gascoigne. I say late for, although he is still limping around in rehab somewhere, he is merely a shadow of his former self. Poor Gazza.

So Titus, the new soccer hero of Bovinia (at least in the 6 year old age group) is now the proud owner of a fake gold medal and is busy trying to persuade us that he doesn't need to play in any more tournaments, as it was 'too much hard work and far too loud'. Maybe he'll like working in a library or a mortuary when he grows up.