Toe Ender

"Don't let that fat kid get the ball" was a common sound from the touchlines of the saturday morning football match.

Out of the 11 in the starting line-up plus a couple of reluctant substitutes given the option of attending the game or doing detention there were perhaps three with any aptitude for sport, three who thought they could play well but were at best average, four more who just loved football for football's sake and would as easily be as happy kicking a tin can around a car park and one who just wanted to get out of the house on a weekend to avoid doing any tiresome chores.

Out of a potential full compliment of, between the 14 in the squad, twenty eight parents, partners, uncles or aunties and hangers-on only three ever turned out to watch the match but to their credit it was both home and away.

They of course were the dads of the allegedly best players.

In their own but now somewhat long-gone playing days they had had aspirations of making the grade, of being talent spotted by a scout from a First Division Team and being whisked away to a life of glamour, untold wealth, fast cars and women.

In reality they had not progressed further than the pub team. There were also the niggling injuries and the shortness of breath inside the rather tight and bulging at the belly team shirt.

The only scouts who hung around the recreation ground were those waiting to pitch their tent after the footballers had finished. Now it was a case of being a pushy parent and to live that elusive life through their offspring.

The three dads always stood together, bonded by a working knowledge of tactics, skills and all trivia of the sport. They would shout loudly at the referee, the lacklustre performances by the rest of the team, men walking their dogs and lady joggers. The usual cliches were spouted forth on the parental status of the man in black, the merits of opening an account at SpecSavers and quite vociferous statements on the laws of the game as they understood them.

Every kick of the ball was followed with a critical eye accompanied by arm and hand gestures and a postering only seen in the technical areas of the Premier League. The previous weekend's Match of The Day had been meticulously studied not for the beauty of the game or the slick passing movements of the top players but for the body language of the Managers. One of the Dads would turn up at the game in a Mourinho type quilted jacket, another in a Tony Pulis Tracksuit combi and the third in full smart Wenger-favoured tailored suit.

As the match slowly rolled along the touchline would become increasingly littered with chewing gum wrappers as an essential accessory for their roles.

Their own sons did not escape the tirade of insults and profanities. A misplaced pass, a failure to control the ball on a pinhead, a squandered open goal opportunity were met with frustration and veiled abuse from the assembled judge,jury and executioners. Gradually the high pressure would get to the young lads and on more than one occasion there would be an unhealthy outburst directed at the trio of dads.

The rest of the team often looked bemused and even a little bit scared by the goings on as though they were just casual onlookers to an unfolding family drama. They were after all just doing their best.

In a weird way the focus of attention on the best players gave the fat kids and duffers the freedom to express themselves and many a precision pass, meticulously timed tackle, perfect body swerve and crashing volley into the top corner of the goal were successfully enacted. It didn't matter if there was no affirmation from the touchline, it was so much more just to imagine the cheers and accolades from the crowd in your head. I know because I was there.