Childhood ends here: AJ prepares for life in the Premiership with his fancy boots (Baby Bentley just out of shot)

It turns out I’m stealing the childhood of my two-year-old, desperately hoping he’ll hand me a pension by signing a contract with a top Premiership club 16 years from now. Today, I’m forcing him to train “professionally” and shutting him away from children not blessed with his talent and – God help him – rich genetic inheritance.

That, at least, is the message from Viv Groskop in the Observer, writing about The End of Jumpers for Goalposts. While my two-year old heads off to Socatots, a football-themed playgroup, Viv’s seven year-old can’t get a game because it appears all his friends are off playing organised games.

He can’t get a game, but his mum managed to get 2,000 words on why not – and it’s all to do with the “over professionalisation of childhood football”, probably by over-ambitious dads like me. She writes:

“Many of the other boys he wants to play with have been in coaching since they were three or four. They’re not keen to play with amateurs. There are plenty of soccer fanatics around, but if you’re remotely serious you train several times a week. You want to play seriously and be refereed properly. There’s no more jumpers for goal posts. It’s enough of a rarity to see boys playing football in jeans. Playground football for boys like my son – who love football but have no ambitions to be the next Rooney – has virtually disappeared.

This situation upsets me. I’m not a football person and neither is Will’s father. But we want to encourage him. Football is a common language for boys of any age. And surely it’s especially important to know your way around the game if you’re not naturally sporty? Will is not keen to go into training. He just wants a kickabout now and again. In the playground he cunningly cast himself as the goalie for a while, until he got bored of that. Now it sounds like he just doesn’t really bother. It’s all too intimidating. So what can we do?”

Viv’s right about the importance of football among boys (and, indeed, their dads). Unfortunately, what she describes is only marginally about the sometimes-appalling youth structure of British football (for a more authoritative report on that, the excellent David Conn’s report on youth development from last year remains the best I can think of).

What she’s really writing about is the rite of male passage that is: learning you’re not very good at football. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about here.

The only things I lacked as a player were pace and skill. Even in the 80s, long before Sky and all-seater stadiums and Baby Bentleys, the boys who were any use at the sport quickly weren’t playing with the likes of me. They headed off to organised games and training sessions where, it was said, ghastly parents would shout and swear from the sidelines. Meanwhile, the boys who were a bit rubbish, or whose parents don’t want them involved (or know the ways into that world), were left to scrabble around for a game elsewhere.

In communities without open spaces, it was – and is – doubtless hard to find a game. In others – like where I was brought up – you eventually found a band of equally talentless mates, and a patch of grass. The jumpers went down, and you got a game.

As then, now. The boys who don’t really care for football don’t play very much. Those who are madly, but rubbish, keen find a way to get their fill. It’s a great way to learn social skills and overcome shyness, as you assail any random group and ask (at least in Scotland): “Gizza game? Room for one more?”. Later in life, when you’ve swapped school uniform for office uniform, there’s a code; you ask if the game is “serious”. If not, you’re in. If there’s mention of leagues and strips and a second XI, the hopeless player bewares.

What do I hope for my son? In a world populated by role models such as John Terry, Wayne Rooney and Joey Barton, certainly not a professional contract. I’d much rather he became a banker. But I do hope he picks up enough skill for him to enjoy the sport, and be good enough play in organised games with his banker friends, if he wants. I’ll be delighted he’s not stuck in front of a computer screen, playing games or writing a blog or something else dreadful.

And, for the moment, he appears to love his football.

Take last weekend. I’m reasonably certain that two-year-olds are supposed to like the snow. There’s the opportunity for snowball fights, snowman building and general slippery-slidy fun. Not for ours. On Saturday morning, a fresh inch or two lying on the ground, young Al wanted only one thing. “Ball,” he said. “More ball,” he added by way of confirmation. For further emphasis, he swung his right leg towards my shin a few times.

Football’s tricky in the snow, alas. Worse, the devilish Socatots was off this week. The church wanted its hall back for some kind of seasonal activity. The whole day was somewhat spoiled as Al, denied his run out, bounced around the house like a coiled spring. “Ball!” he cried, frustrated we couldn’t get his message.

That’s m’boy. I suspect that, as he gets older, he’ll always find a way to find a game.

First, woe for those who choose to brave Russia in 2018 – how will they travel that huge nation! Will they build railways and roads as good as England’s by then? (Answer: what do you think?. And rail travel will be free, the Russian bid promises).

Then there’s Quatar and its air-conditioned stadiums and training grounds, 40-degree heat and – most importantly – how will anyone get a drink? (Answer to all the above: stay in a five-star hotel. Don’t bring any tinnies with you.)

The concern for fans is laudable, even if the motivation for it – fury at England’s failure, mainly – is obvious. Britain’s own vested interests aside, the outrage also reflects anger at something so counter to our sentimental, very British way of viewing football.

Subscribe to this view and also subscribe to the belief that a brilliant, emotional last-minute presentation by a prince, Prime Minister and Becks himself might actually have swung it, where England’s history in the game counts for much, where the awarding of a multi-billion dollar sporting franchise isn’t executed with a cold-eyed regard for the bottom line.

On the ground, fans who travel to World Cups quickly get to know their place. Finals – like any major sporting occasion – are made-for-TV events these days. Fans are there to provide some atmosphere for the broadcast, and cutaways after a goal has been scored. To attend a big final – my last was the UEFA Cup final in Manchester back in 2008 – is to understand how much of what goes on, right down to the trophy presentation, is for the benefit of the cameras.

At home on the sofa watching TV is where most of the fans – and money – is. The rise of effective global TV coverage removes the barrier to having the world’s biggest sporting occasion in any corner of the world Sepp Blatter the FIFA executive committee chooses. We’re not blinking at fuzzy images from Mexico, ala 1986, any more (although I maintain that was a high-water mark for World Cup themes. That’s another post).

The pitches will be fine. The facilities, paid for by natural resource riches, will universally be reported as magnificent by national team managers and embedded sports reporters. We will all agree.

FIFA’s motivation can have little to do, directly at least, with sporting matters or sentimentality about the motherland of football. They want to partner with rich nations, strengthen fanbases in underdeveloped (in footballing terms) places, bring in new sponsors, put on a great TV show, and reap the rewards for doing so.

As The Journal delicately put it when discussing the 2022 award: “A desire to make history, and the opportunity to partner with the natural gas fortune of the Qatari royal family, ultimately proved irresistible to FIFA.”

Quite.

But there is far more shocking news emerging from Scotland today, surrounding smooth-voiced Charles “Chick” Young (right), often rightly called the Barry White of Scottish sports reporting for his mellow broadcast reflection on matters both on and off the pitch and who, for a man of such fame, is well-known for the remarkable modesty with which he holds his many views.

Our hero had to be stretchered off the park during a Journalists vs MSPs football match on Sunday, following a red-blooded tackle from Labour’s John Park, which led to the MSP’s sending off before the game was entirely abandoned.

News of this shocking assault has only emerged today.

Red-faced MSP Ken Macintosh, who also played in the game, can be heard in the audio clip accompanying this story on BBC Radio Scotland about the match, expressing his regret and apologising to the Chick.

But it’s a measure of Chick’s legendary perspective that, even though the programme was clearly trying to play the whole episode in an ill-judged attempt at “laughs”, he found the courage to not accept that apology, and also brand the tackle as “evil, in my opinion”.

Talking to the Scottish Daily Record, Chick added: “John Park did me.  I’ve got six stud marks down my leg. I’m still limping.”

Chick told the Glasgow Evening Times: “They played like thugs. The treatment of us and the ref was scandalous.”

Chick added, to the Times: “One guy playing at the back for them was a nutcase of the first order and their language to the ref was scandalous. They totally lost the plot.”

And Chick pointed, in an interview with the Scotsman, to the clear political ramifications of the rammie, reminding his public: “What worries me most of all: these are the people who are in charge of running the country.”

The journalists had been losing 6-2 to the people in charge of running the country before scuffles broke out and the game was abandoned.

Adds that Times report: “One of Mr Park’s team-mates said that the journalists had over-reacted. ‘I don’t think there will be a return match.”

• My regular reader will recall Chick’s last appearance on this blog, when we brought you this classic YouTube footage of an ill-fated interview with Rangers manager Walter Smith. Warning – strong language on the other side of that link.

But for those who did… here’s a rather useful English Premier League injury table, supplied by PhysioRoom.com, which lets you decide which players to keep in your side, and who to drop. By tracking which players are unlikely to feature in games any time soon, it makes life a little easier.

It’s now linked to permanently in the right hand column, under the “about me” stuff, for easy reference as the season goes on.

With my publishing hat on… it’s a smart move by Physioroom.com to supply this information in this way… there’s nothing new about this kind of content syndication, but it makes particular sense for them. Their principle business is selling therapeutic supports, braces and medical kit for sports injuries, so the injury table is rather buried away on their site. But by supplying some embed code for the table, they get people like me republishing it – and also distributing their ads.I’d imagine they also get Googlejuice, so everyone wins.

Except the injured players, of course.

So it’s with some enthusiasm that I’m trying to ignore the sound of rushing water – the workmen are pumping hundreds of gallons out right now – to make final adjustments to my Cristal Palace side, ahead of the start of the new Premier League season tomorrow.

And this, gentle reader, is your final chance to join the Completetosh.com fantasy league – the League of Scoundrels – which already has a rather staggering 18 teams, managed by readers from around the world. The deadline is midday tomorrow, Saturday, if you want to submit your team for the first round of matches. You can join later, of course, but by that point 17 sides will be rocketing ahead while I – going on current luck – will be exploring the game’s capacity to do minus numbers.

To sign up: first go to Fantasy Football, pick your team and save it. Then click on Friends’ Leagues. You’ll need to enter the league name: League of Scoundrels. And the password: Completetosh.

I look forward to seeing you there. Right after I’ve had a chat with a man who’s carrying a very big pump through my house.

The Football League kicked off on Saturday – as you can see, I attempted a panoramic pic with the iPhone as the teams lined up at the County Ground, Swindon. We got things rolling nicely with a 3-1 victory, including a lovely first goal netted by Billy Paynter after a the kind of intricate passing move we don’t get to enjoy too often down those parts. Hurrahs all round, as you can imagine.

The other big kick off is this Saturday, of course, when the Premiership gets going. I’m delighted that the League of Scoundrels, the official Completetosh Fantasy Football league, already sports a mighty 15 teams after my earlier plug here. Welcome, one and all.

If you haven’t already, I hope you’ll join in the fun – it’s free, and you’ll get to watch me embarrass myself by being almost unfeasibly rubbish. Once you’ve signed up here, click on the Friends Leagues link and search for the League of Scoundrels. The password is Completetosh. Go on – sign up. It’s so much more fun than work. And, you know… it’s August, after all.

And if you’ve signed up but haven’t picked a team yet, don’t forget to log in before the end of the week to pick your squad – you really don’t want to end up with the team the auto pick feature gives you.

Oh yes, the emails are buzzing around today.

Inter must stump up €1,500 after the fan was left ”indignant and deeply hurt” by the chants, during Napoli’s 2-1 defeat there, presumably having had his meaning and essence in life challenged by the home fan’s crude messages.

While I think there’s hardly enough Nietzsche in the game these days, let’s hope that such litigation never reaches these shores, where many of m’colleagues could be bankrupted for their taunts; describing Crystal Palace as “a small town in Millwall”, for instance, or damning Luton Town’s “shit ground, no fans”.

Plymouth boss Paul Sturrock, too, should offer up thanks that British courts have yet to acknowledge the problem of post-traumatic existential angst, following his ill-judged remarks (Video on YouTube) to some Dundee United fans at the weekend.

After a pre-season friendly between his Plymouth side and United, Sturrock greeted the adoring visiting fans with a low bow, before wishing them – over the PA system – all the best for the coming season.

“And,” he added to huge cheers, “make sure you beat those Scumdee bastards the next time you play them.”

The inevitable disappointment and offense felt by Scu- sorry, Dundee officials was duly recorded by a passing Daily Record scribe, who gently patted the shoulder of club chief executive Dave MacKinnon as he sniffed: “It is ill-advised to make a comment like that but it is a matter for Paul Sturrock to explain why he said those things in public. 

“It was obviously a mistake and clearly defamatory. If he is man enough to come out and apologise to the fans for the statement, I am sure the matter will be put to bed but that is entirely up to him.”

While I would never want to question the validity of MacKinnon’s grief – not for a moment – I, for one, hope no apology is forthcoming, lest we look back on these days as the start of a slippery slope to a litigious hell.

Think, after all, of the sums that could change hand after an Old Firm game in Scotland, where paying punters aren’t known to hold back in their attempts to existentially disrupt one another – repeatedly and violently – before, during and after each game. Chaos could ensue; we might witness the bankrupting of both clubs, as they are forced to hand all their assets, payout by payout, to rival fans too distraught to do anything other than seek pecuniary compensation for their loss of self.

Those might be bright times, perhaps, for philosophy, but surely the darkest of nights for our national sport.

First, the sales pitch… we looked around the market and saw quite a few rather dull games which people were charging for. So we’ve worked with one of the leading fantasy game makers – Clever.tv – to build a free game that is… well, hopefully a little smarter than your average fantasy football game.

Obviously, the central idea is still to assemble a team with your £100m budget, and win points based on the players’ real performances in the Premier League. But, instead of just getting points for an assist, or a goal, or a clean sheet, there are a bunch of other ways to score points – tackles, shots on target, interceptions, and more – which should make this a much more interesting and nuanced play than you might get elsewhere. We think it’ll mean that managers who take a punt on some of the Premiership’s less lauded names may well be rewarded.

Then we added choices of formations, a squad system, stuck on a gorgeous interface, and club supporter and national leagues that your team can all be part of. Best of all, the game’s free. And there’s a £50k prize fund.

We think it’s going to be a scream.

I’m thrilled with how it’s turned out, yet – despite my involvement – it’s still guaranteed that I’ll be rubbish at actually playing it. So now’s your chance to humiliate me (in some cases, again). Better still, your one team can be part of many leagues, meaning you don’t need to have multiple teams, which would be a fiddle.

To sign up: first go to Fantasy Football, pick your team and save it. Then click on Friends’ Leagues. You’ll need to enter the league name: League of Scoundrels. And the password: Completetosh.

You’ll see my team – Cristal Palace – is already there, and ready for its heroic plummet to the foot of the table. Your glory is assured.

It’s the week of the summer which proves: a really bad memory only helps you become a better football fan.

Let me explain: the new season may be two months off – the fixture list isn’t even out yet – but the arrival of the new season ticket is an exciting moment. Mine thudded onto the doormat this week.

The close season is not, I suspect, something non-football fans will understand. But an attraction of the sport is that, unlike Real Life, things get reset every summer. No matter how shocking your side was last season, the slate is wiped clean. Forget about the midfield’s abject inability to pass to colleagues, don’t bother thinking about how leaky the defense was against even the lowliest journeymen, and just blank out how appallingly bereft of confidence the strikers were. There, there. It’s all gone. A fresh start is made.

Relegated? No bother. You’re too good for this new, lower league, and will bounce back in a memorable Season Of Glory.

Or was the tale of last season like Swindon Town’s – one of mid-table obscurity? Even better – it’s only a small step to the the playoffs which surely await you next May. Let’s all sing Town Are On Their Way to Wembley.

Better yet, maybe you actually suffered the heartache of a cup final gubbing or playoff defeat? Now is the time to let the scars heal – your team, the stronger for the experience (and never, ever, shattered and demoralised and thinking of getting a transfer somewhere better/wealthier/sunnier) will make sure of it next time.

And there will be a next time.

So, after a few weeks in the Mediterranean (lower leagues) or Dubai (Frank Lampard), the players are back sweating it out in preseason. Let the the players be photographed throwing up with exertion for the benefit of the first home game match programme, while our delusions find new voice.

Euphemisms abound in the local papers (lower leagues) or News of the World (Frank Lampard); strikers talk of the need to find the net only once early on, at which point the floodgates will open. You naturally believe they have 20 a season in them, defying the bitter experience of your own eyes only a few months ago.

Defenders talk up all the work they’re doing as a “unit”, calling to mind a well-drilled military outfit ready to defy even the flying Ronaldo himself. Midfielders talk about workrate and getting-the-basics-right-and-the-rest-will-follow, of dynamism and tempo and width.

And, by God, you lap it up. If we don’t look like a Wiltshire Brazil on that sunny opening day in August I’ll be aghast.

And when the fixtures finally come out you’ll busily scan through the list, earmarking the away trips and forgetting – just as you forgot about the performances themselves – about the assorted dreadful places you chose to go last year, just to see the team lose.

Truly, amnesia is a football fan’s greatest friend. That and a pair of warm gloves.