When it comes to living room football, my son is a worse loser than Donald Trump

In the third instalment of his new series, Will Gore explains the Black Lives Matter movement to his five-year-old, as they take a knee before kick-off

Marcus Rashford of Manchester United takes a knee in support of the Black Lives Matter movement on 1 November (Getty)

I discovered football in 1985.

By the age of six, lots of the other boys in my class had already selected a team to support. A few had plumped for Ipswich Town, East Anglia’s big club back then, with Bobby Robson at the helm. Many others had gone for glory, backing the almighty Liverpool.

Since my favourite colour was red, Liverpool ought to have been a contender. But from what I’d seen, their red had a kind of orangey hue – and I wasn’t fond of their badge. What’s more, they were just too obvious; I preferred the idea of rooting for an underdog. Which is how – though few later would believe it – I alighted on Manchester United.

Back then, they were perennial underachievers who occasionally won the FA Cup. And sure enough, Norman Whiteside’s left-foot curler against Everton in the 1985 final sealed the deal for me. From then on, I was hooked.

When he asked me a little while later what the kneeling was for, I explained as best as I could

I would practice volleys in the house with a tennis ball, smashing everything from light bulbs to jam jars. I gazed at pictures of star striker Mark Hughes, and wondered when I could get a perm. Oddly – and perhaps thankfully – it didn’t occur to me till years later that he basically had the same haircut as my mum.

And of course, there was Panini, back when the word meant stickers, not sandwiches. In that first season of my nascent obsession, I was late to the party, so my mother bought me a plain scrap book to stick my heroes in. But when the next season began, I had the real album at the ready and would live for the smell of new stickers and a glint of foil that would indicate a coveted club badge.

Thirty-five years on, my love of football has long since waned. I still note United’s results, just as I look to see how Cambridge – my “other” club, and the one I actually went to watch in the flesh – are getting on. But I never watch matches on TV, and only sit down for the highlights two or three times in a season.

My son’s obsession, on the other hand, is in the first excited flush, having emerged shortly before Lockdown 1.0. For him, the coronavirus pandemic – and the pause in the football season – couldn’t have come at a worse time. On reflection, it might explain the rages of spring.

Like me, Tristan discovered that many of his friends had already found “their” club – usually one supported by a parent; or Liverpool. Plus ca change. For reasons that remain obscure, he decided he liked the look of Tottenham, which I suppose is at least good practice for dealing with life’s disappointments. He still only knows one of their players, but as role models go, Harry Kane seems a decent enough sort.

In the absence of any flat bit of garden, Tristan kicks balls around the living room, just as I once did. There have been no breakages – yet. In the interests of competition, he and I play against one another at least twice a day. I must not win: and if by accident I do, extra time must be played, or some other random rule must be invented – such as the winner having to score two consecutive goals, or a goal not counting unless both players see it cross the line. He’s a worse loser than Donald Trump.

Tristan is almost always Tottenham and I annoy him daily by referring to him as Tottingham Forest. I am Man U, or Cambridge, or sometimes “Aston Village” (I pronounce it like the French and am still not sure whether I am setting Tristan up for a fall with his mates).

A couple of weekends ago, we began a game as usual, but Tristan quickly called the match to a halt. “Daddy,” he said very seriously, “we can’t start until we kneel down. That’s what real footballers do.”

For a few seconds I was perplexed, until I realised that a couple of days before, he had watched Match of the Day and must have seen players taking the knee before kick-off. When he asked me a little while later what the kneeling was for, I explained as best as I could, wondering how much a five-year-old could take on board. Quite a lot I suspect.

Ever since that first time, we now take a knee in advance of every game. It is, after all, never too early to learn that some things matter much more even than football.