Victory has a thousand fathers, defeat is an orphan

The most depressing thing ever happens in the middle of the cup final this afternoon. The game is scoreless at half-time, and after giving my usual Churchillian team talk, I invite all players to put their hands in the circle and ask the captain to lead us in the traditional 1-2-3 chant. Which he does, kind of.

‘I-2-3, let’s do this for our dads!’ he shouts and the others follow.

I’m crestfallen. These ungrateful wretches. I lead them to a cup final and this is how they repay me, vowing to win the game for their fathers. Hallmark has a lot to answer for.

The match opens up in the second half and with five minutes remaining, it’s a 2-2 tie. Then, one of our strikers produces the most audacious and (very obviously) well-coached dive in the penalty box. It’s gratifying to see the time you’ve put in to teaching kids pay off like that, and the gullible ref, not used to this quality of simulation, points to the spot.

It’s the job of the captain to take our penalties and as he strides forward with the ball in his hand, I take great pride in stopping him in his tracks.

'No, let the guy who won it take it,' I shout.

The captain looks at me in shock. Yeah, he knows why he’s being punished.

The penalty goes high and wide and our opponents go down the field to score with seconds left on the clock. We lose the game but I think I proved my point. The only person who cries harder afterwards than the boy who missed the penalty is the captain. He's the real culprit here, his refusal to acknowledge me in the half-time chant cost us the cup.

On the way home, wife calls.

‘Will I meet you at your father’s house?’

‘Why?’

‘To give him his presents for Father’s Day.’

I hang up. I can’t even dignify this with a response.