Back in the summer of 2015 as I awaited the birth of my second son, when people asked me about my burgeoning bump — as they are wont to do of heavily-pregnant women — I kept receiving the same, curious response. ‘Oh you haven’t timed that well,’ random strangers would say. ‘August babies don’t do so well at school — and they never become Premiership footballers.’ As I smiled politely and thanked them for their unsolicited advice, I thought again and again, ‘What right-thinking mother would want their son to be a Premiership footballer?’ The sleaze, the moral corruption, the obscene salaries and conspicuous consumption. Tabloid-fodder, hooligans with credit cards, the underwhelming performance on the national stage — predestined to crash out of every tournament on penalties. The game had become a circus, football secondary to the sideshow of the entourage, the lascivious lifestyle.
This week, as I shepherded two sleepy little boys to school (still feeling the effects of their late night watching Wednesday’s historic semi-final), something rather wonderful has happened.
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