This is a slightly edited version of a post that first appeared on my old on blog April 8th, 2009.

I have never liked football and have never understood the passions it arouses in others.

There are two aspects to football: there is watching it and there is playing it. If I have never derived the least pleasure from watching football played, then playing it myself has procured me definite displeasure.

I did of course play football at school. Love it or hate it, you had to play; there was no escape. If my father had lived long enough to teach me the pleasures of kicking things, the story might have been different. As it was, I only became acquainted with the game at school. Even this introduction was delayed because my mother entertained the notion that I would get a better education at a fee-paying school and sent me to a succession of these. Unfortunately, we lacked the means to afford good schools and all of those I attended, usually for a few weeks or months until their faults became obvious, were very poor. Academically I learnt nothing and at none of them were there organized games. We were lucky to get the odd nature walk in a nearby park.

It was only when my mother finally resigned herself to sending me to the local state school that I was at last introduced to the game that, in England at least, seems to be regarded as the birthright of every boy.

I was always tall for my age and – let’s be honest – rather clumsy. No one ever explained the rules of the game to me so I never really knew what I was supposed to do once out on the muddy turf. All I knew was that if by some mischance the ball should head my way, I suddenly became the centre of attention of 21 angry-looking boys all yelling contradictory orders at me. Whatever I did next would provoke a great roar of frustration and disapproval. All in all, it was best to stay well clear of the ball.

When I moved to the secondary school, I found that “sport” and “games”, along with athletics, were treated even more seriously there. If you were inept, you were treated with a sneering contempt as if your lack of ability were some sort of moral failing. Every Wednesday afternoon was “games period”, and I looked forward to it with foreboding.

The ritual never changed. The games master would select two boys as captains of their respective teams. They then, in turn and one by one, would choose their teams from among the rest of us. I was never picked, which was a blessing, but it meant that once the teams were chosen and went out to play their match with the teacher as referee, there remained a gaggle of us, the Untouchables, the Useless. We were given a ball and directed to one of the pitches and told to organize ourselves.

My companions probably had as little interest in playing football as I had and we would trot along after the ball, in a great crowd, each trying to kick it, but without any real idea as to what we hoped to achieve by doing so. Occasionally, the games master would come across and berate us for some misconduct or other and perhaps punish us by telling us to run around the pitch until he told us to stop.

In summer, we played cricket in much the same way that we played football in winter. The difference was that the ball, smaller and therefore more difficult to keep track of, was also much harder. You didn’t want to be caught in the line of fire so, even more than in the case of football, keeping well away from the ball was the best strategy. This was not always possible and I often went home with the bruises to prove it.

This torture might have continued throughout my school career but for two serendipitous discoveries. Although it was not publicized and I only found out about it by chance, the school offered tennis as an alternative to cricket. Thereafter, at each games period, I and a few other rebels would obtain a chit from the Latin master (why the Latin master? I have no idea…) which would enable us to hire a tennis court in the park up the road from the school. With no one to supervise us or order us to run around the court until told to stop, we enjoyed ourselves immensely. Of course, we never actually learnt to play tennis.

The second discovery, also not publicized, was that instead of playing football, one could go cross-country running. I carried the good news to my fellow Untouchables who immediately embraced the concept with joy. All we had to do was jog once around the prescribed track, which included part of the local wooded park, chatting and joking as we went, and as soon as we arrived back at school we could change and go home. It was with a true feeling of triumph that I set off homewards while the more sporty of my classmates were still chasing the ball around the pitch.

The only slight problem with this strategy was that the final leg of the run took us across playing fields shared with the girls’ school. If the girls were out in force at the time, you were lucky to get away with jeers and ribald comments. Sometimes they would dance in rings around you or chase you with intentions you would rather not think about. It was advisable to keep some energy for this final, occasionally desperate, sprint down the home straight.

While still in the thick of it at school, I solemnly promised myself that once I left, I would never ever again submit myself to the indignities of gymnastics and games. I have stuck to that promise. My son managed to learn to play football and to follow a particular team, all without any assistance from me and I do not think my neurotic disposition against what I see as a particularly pointless pastime has harmed him.

The shame and embarrassment that accompanied my enforced participation in games and athletics have largely melted away with the years but I occasionally remember a particular incident that comes back to me as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday. This was when I was briefly sent to school in Wales. It was the most shambolic school I have ever known, a village school where children of several age groups were all taught together.

One afternoon we boys were taken out to play football in a muddy field. The process of the match resembled the rout of Boudicca more than a game but at one moment play was halted. It must have been for a free kick. There was the hush of expectation and when the whistle blew one of the boys rushed forward and kicked the ball with all his might.

As usual, I was in the game but not of it: I had no real idea what was going on. I stood watching the action and the ball flew off the boy’s foot and caught me full in the face. The world dissolved into a grey mist and far away, very far away, I heard a voice, the lilting Welsh-accented voice of the teacher. “Well stopped, that boy!” he exclaimed approvingly.

The irony of that phrase remains with me still.