“Happy birthday!” “Thanks!” Suddenly all I can see is the ceiling, and flashes of blurred movement. Is that wrapping paper? “Thanks mum!” “You’re welcome!” I have no idea what my 10-year-old son is thanking me for. Tournament football can be tough. Is it worth it? Is seven weeks away from your kid really worth it? How many birthdays can I miss?
No matter the joy, the adrenaline, the rush, the guilt over feeling guilty when you’re doing a job you love and that others would give up a limb for, those questions still hit you. Regularly. In many ways, doing the job I do allows me to spend time with my kid in ways that those working nine to five can’t. I’m here, I’m there, from matches to training grounds, but I’m able to help do the school runs, to be present day-to-day, but the tournaments take an emotional and physical toll. It is long days, late nights, thousands of words, mistimed video calls home, unhealthy eating, lots of travel, late-night podcast records, tempered only by the football, the players and the camaraderie between journalists.
