“Got your shorts?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“T-Shirt?”

“Yes Dad.”

“Footie socks?”

“Yes! I’ve got everything. Stop!”

“I bet I know one thing you’re missing?”

“I’m not missing anything!”

“Shin pads!”

“Oh…”

Dads know best. Or at least they like to think they do and in my parenting experience, the times at which you are right are the times you need to make your point – if nothing else to compensate for the times you will inevitably get it wrong. Even parents are human.

“Here they are,” I smiled, packing his shin pads into his sports bag.

“Why do I need them, anyway”?

“So you don’t get sore legs if someone tackles you badly.”

“It’s football, Dad. Not fighting.”

“Well, it’s your first competitive game!! You never know.”

As a half Argentine half Englishman, I’m football (or soccer) crazy and was encouraged that my young son was taking to it well. He was fast, a rapid little winger with great ball control. His own worst, enemy, however, was his own perfectionist ways. His “final product,” as his coach called it, was some way short of the rest of his game play. His passes or shots were generally a little wide of the mark (to put it nicely) but he still made the team.

Standing on the sidelines rubbing my hands together under the thick clouds of Manchester was a proud moment, more for him than me, though, it seemed as he stood, six year old chest puffed out and football socks right up to his knees.

An effective winger he proved, a real playmaker responsible for much of the action in the midfield. Being the centre of the team play wasn’t enough for him though, as he went on to score his first goal. He hadn’t even managed one in training prior to the game and his pride was evident from the beaming grin on his face.

After changing, he came running towards me laughing and smiling.

“What a goal!” I said, picking him up.

“Never mind that,” he said. “I told you I wouldn’t need my shin pads!”