202004 - The Loudest Voice on the Touchline
A father, a football pitch, and learning to let go
Letter ID: LON-202004
Dear London,
I don’t know what happens to me on a Sunday. All week I’m calm, normal, regular dad — school runs, homework, dinner, all that. But as soon as we pull up to the pitch and he’s got his boots on, something switches in me. I start acting like I’m managing England in the World Cup final. Shouting, pacing, muttering under my breath like I know better than everyone else there.
I tell myself I’m not gonna be that parent. You know the ones — arms folded, screaming “press!” every two minutes, like the kid’s eleven and not Haaland. But then he miscontrols a pass or drifts out the game and suddenly I’m there on the touchline losing my head over it. Half the time he can’t even hear me. It’s just me winding myself up.
Thing is… I can see he’s got something. Not saying he’s the next big thing, but he’s decent. Quick feet, decent balance, reads the game well for his age. And I look at him and think, if I’d had that, if someone had pushed me properly, maybe things would’ve gone different for me. Maybe I would’ve made it further than I did.
And that’s the bit that hurts, if I’m being honest.
Because I don’t want to live through him — but sometimes I feel like I am.
He just loves playing. Doesn’t think too deep about it. Wants to be with his mates, score a few goals, go home, play Fortnite. He doesn’t care about drills in the garden or running laps or “first touch, son!” and I’m there giving speeches like I’m Guardiola. Meanwhile he’s asking what’s for lunch.
Then he’ll do something mad — like dribble past three kids and stick it top corner — and suddenly I’m imagining trials, academies, scouts on the sideline. It’s embarrassing. I have to remind myself he’s a kid, not a project.
I don’t want to crush the joy out of it.
I don’t want him playing with fear, thinking he has to impress me.
So next Sunday, I’m gonna try something different.
I’m keeping my mouth shut.
I’m clapping. I’m cheering.
If he asks for advice, I’ll give it. If he doesn’t, I’ll chill.
Because end of the day, he’s my boy — not my second chance.
A dad trying his best
Occasionally we shape real stories into letters, so every voice is heard.
Source: Letter sent in by the writer
Photo Credits
Images are sourced to enhance the reading experience and do not depict the original writer
•Letter image: iStock.com/marcoventuriniautieri