A chilly Saturday morning on the Astroturf pitches at Coram’s Fields in central London and several youth football matches are under way. I’m watching an under-11s game. The sound is the thud of boot on ball, the shrill interruption of the referee’s whistle, and a whole lot of shouting. From the players (“Mine!”, “Here!”, “Pass!”, “Ref!”, etc). From the two coaches (“Press!”, “Stay wide!”, “Push up!”, “Ref!”, etc). And from the touchline dads. There is one mum here today, but she’s less vocal.
To varying degrees, the dads are part fan, part coach, part personal trainer to their progeny. There is one dad (there’s always one) who’s taking it a bit further, who’s a bit shoutier than the others. “Get rid of it!” he screams at the defence, meaning hoof it upfield, which is the opposite of the coach’s instructions to play it out from the back. “Ref! Seriously?” he shouts at the referee (who’s only about 17 himself).
