1 min read
Going to the football has been one of the rites of passage in my life. As a boy, I went with my dad and my brother to watch my beloved Luton Town. It was where we shouted, laughed, cheered and, more often than not, came home mildly disappointed.
As I got older, football became something I did with friends, a Saturday built around the game, but never just about the game. A place to talk, to share and to celebrate. Now, as a parent, I find myself doing what my father did before me, taking my own boys along and watching them learn the strange, hopeful, occasionally punishing rhythm of supporting a team.
I’ve never been someone who watches much football on TV. For me, the pull has always been the people I’m with and the chance to be together, away from work, school runs, phones, stress and all the small pressures that build over a week. Sport gives people permission to shout, sing, jump up and down, talk nonsense for a couple of hours and, on a good day, believe everything might still turn out well.
