WE'RE BIG KIDS,WE FOOTBALL DADS

FOOTBALL, heaven knows, does not always bring out the best in folk - especially folk who are blokes. As the season reaches its end we can look back on the usual array of unpleasantries: the fouling, faking and moaning of fabulously wealthy stars; the goading, gloating and abusiveness of too many fans. Those of us who think of football as engrossing human theatre may be forgiven for fearing that the blend of villainy and virtue on which the whole drama depends has tipped too far in favour of the former.

Recently, though, I received a huge, reviving dose of some old- time sporting religion. It did not take place at High-bury, Stamford Bridge or even Craven Cottage. Rather, my inspiration was provided by a primary school team called Millfields, who won a distinguished silver trophy called the Horatio Bottomley Cup. Call me sentimental - call me Ron Manager II, if you like - but those 11 lads have healed my football soul.

I should admit to being very, very biased. Millfields, in east Hackney, is the school of my two eldest sons, and the older one, nine year-old Frankie, is a member of the Millfields team. I'm as proud as he is of his first football medal - bigger than an FA Cup one, I'll have you know. But my pleasure in Millfields' exploits is not solely due to flesh-and-blood interest. Although the winning was much better than the losing would have been, this is first and foremost a story of taking part - one which will feel familiar to droves of dedicated teachers, mum and dads all over London and which demonstrates, in its small way, that football can help young lads learn how to be good and generous human beings. In Millfields' case it all started four years ago, thanks to Ray Kates, a Mill-fields parent whose son Matty is a stalwart of the team. Ray, an Arsenal fan with an interest in coaching, organised some practice sessions on Millfields' park. As these chaotic scrimmages became more orderly affairs, he set about raising the money to run a team on the school's behalf. Latham's, a local timber merchant, chipped in for equipment. Sponsorship for kit came from a different source. I shall always remember the earliest Mill-fields team trooping through the streets for its first proper match, resplendent in their new strip: dark blue with yellow trim and the words G.R. Moss & Co, Funeral Directors emblazoned on the front. Ray nicknamed us the Blue 'n' Golds, but perhaps we should have gone for The Undertakers instead - it might have spooked a few opposing teams. We won some games and lost some in our first couple of years. But this season has been different. Most of the boys are now in their final year, and many have been coached by Ray since they were six or seven. There has been skill, determination and a lovely team spirit they've grown up together and everything has suddenly fallen into place. Three big wins qualified us for a semi-final on Hackney Marsh. At half time we were two-nil down, but our star striker Obi Nene saved us with three super goals. The head teacher, Mrs Hassan, couldn't watch. I could watch, but couldn't speak much the next day. We're such big kids, we football dads. And so we all went to the final: lots of teachers, lots of parents and two coach-loads of cheering pupils. We scored first when Obi toe- poked home. All our fans went mad. In the second half we scored again, but our opponents, Gay-hurst school, were doughty fighters. They pulled one back and then subjected us to six long minutes of serious attrition before the final whistle blew. LOOKING back - not least at my own excitable behaviour - I reflected on what I had really been involved in that afternoon. Was it the progress of male children towards maturity? Or was it just part of the process by which boys become trapped in a football- fuelled state of permanent adolescence? For me, that grim defending at the end suggests the first is true. Ray has always taught the boys to play football the right way, not just in terms of tactics and technique, but of etiquette and attitude as well. Our players always give the other side three cheers at the end. They never grumble at each other. They always play together, as a team. It will be difficult for Millfields to retain the cup next year. Eight of this season's team will have moved on to secondary school, leaving only Matty, Frankie and a little midfield dynamo named Yaaseen. But Ray's kids will be all right. I'm not one for quoting Kipling - Barry Davies does it so much better - but while watching Frankie and his pals over recent weeks that famous passage from If has kept appearing in my head. How does it go again? You know: the bit about triumph and disaster, and treating those imposters both the same - then you will be a man, my boy, then you will be a man. Something like that, anyway. Soppy stuff, of course. But how sweetly it rings true just now.

Copyright 1999
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