My son has joined an important protest movement. He told me about it in hushed tones on Thursday evening as we discussed his day. Some boys in year six had started it, he said, and he was with them, a signatory to their petition. The cause? England’s hopes and dreams at the World Cup. The demand? That the headteacher allow them to down pencils and watch the Three Lions’ match against Iran on Monday.
I expressed some doubt that the school would accede to the request, but the conviction of the rebel would not be shaken. I didn’t dare ask what the back-up plan might be, although the prospect of small children storming the staff room to bagsie the telly is not entirely displeasing.
All in all, I admire the spirit of the plotters, and yet I am struggling to share their enthusiasm. This is my son’s first World Cup – or the first he is truly aware of. His joy at the prospect has brought back happy memories for me of the Mexico ’86 tournament. I was seven then, as he is now, and the excitement of those few weeks was like nothing I had known before (and perhaps like nothing I’ve known since).
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