The start.

I cant ever say I was obsessed with the game from the instant I came kicking and most probably screaming into this world. My formative years were spent fretting about the fall of communism and its subsequent impact across Europe, that and my beloved dinky cars. I would sit quietly and spin, roll and sometimes throw the little replicas around the room until they would be lost forever under the bed. I was a good child from all accounts and was easily pleased and fed while remaining docile. That all changed with a bang as I began to rebel against the establishment i.e. the parents and developed into what my grandmother cheerfully described as “a horrible little s***”.

After what I have been assured was the most terrible of twos I began to focus on the age old cowboys and Indians, and although my father insisted I used to set my cowboys up in an attacking four-four-two to slaughter the more defensive-minded Indians who adopted a “what we have we hold” approach all I seem to recall is placing my plastic gunslingers anywhere they may get stood on. Despite my dad’s metronomic insistence that I devout myself to the game my mother said I remained uninterested with an contemptuous look upon my face whenever Dad began to drone.

I can vaguely recall Italia 90 and Ireland’s glorious march to the quarter-finals only to be foiled by a dastardly bald Italian. Despite weeks of celebration and silly hats the round ball had yet to gripe me. I grew weary of the cowboys and instead became infatuated with the teenage mutant ninja turtles. I would tune in religiously every week to see what fiendish plot Shredder had designed only to see it crumble at the hands of those remarkable turtles. Donatello’s meticulous approach to forming and executing a plan was invigorating and I like to think this is where I found my love of football tactics and not the more conventional Subbeto. Such a notion is ridiculous of course but I have devoted a lot of thought wondering if Donatello would have made as a top level manager. I have since concluded that his reliance on a rat as a mentor would ultimately hinder him.

The moment of blissful clarity regarding the beautiful game came when I was aged six, after a routine day of wiping one nose on your sleeve and steeping in a pile of the dogs finest, I climbed into bed, rolled up my official Turtles duvet and readied myself for a another idyllic night of worry free sleep. The type only a kid gets but only an adult can appreciate. Just as I began to doze my stomach erupted in a fit of what can only be described as liquid snot. I rushed to the bathroom and projectile-vomited the contents of my stomach into what looked a frightened toilet. My mother came crashing up the stairs in a DEFCON-ONE panic. All sorts of towels and cloths were thrown over me while my temperature was took and retaken with all kinds of devices until I was left looking like a particularly crazy sheik. I was nursed downstairs and ushered into the sitting room next to the fire. My father dismissed my illness a “one of those bugs” but assured me there was a sizable upside. I could watch match of the day. United had won six-three at Arsenal and the glow that emitted from his eyes was evident to me even in my morbid state. That unmistakably signature tune blared out from the T.V and I decided to rouse myself long enough to watch what all the fuss was about and for some unknown reason it hit me. Believe me I would love to tell you it was Van Basten and his volley, Maradona and his hand or Gullit and his hair but my first real intoxicated moment as a football fan was Lee Sharpe and his Elvis impression. It was like a light had been switched in my head. Pass, move shoot, tackle. It was all so rhythmic, so poised. Was there anything more satisfying then a ball slamming into the net? And seeing the scorer sing into the corner flag after? Immediately after the highlights of the game finished and the esteemed panel of pundits concluded that Lee Sharpe “had a good game” after scoring a hat-trick I turned to my dad to ask him more only to see him staring at me with a delirious look upon him. The game had finally gripped me and he knew it.