“Football is not about life and death”, quoth Bill Shankly, former manager of Liverpool Football Club: “It is more important than that.”

It is possible I was muttering these words under my breath in disgruntled irony as I prepared my son for his Saturday football match.

A football can hurtle through the air at 70 miles an hour: I have my son’s best interest, and the arrangement of his facial features, as my chief concern.

Week in, week out, his father is there on the sidelines, sharing mirth and camaraderie with all the Dads and the coach, shouting all the right blokey advice, thinking up just the right thing to say at the end, whether it is a victory or a defeat.

My side of the family have always been ambivalent about any sport.

When the decision was made to involve Felix in a team I knew it would mean getting kit ready, and ferrying him around, and late bedtime on practice night. And of course, that ball flying through the air.

I did not feel this had been thought through, but I was out of action convalescing from an op, and Phil was Mummy. Ergo, his word was law.

There was also the matter of the Hand In Marriage conversation.

Once upon a time Phil decided he would like to marry me. My suitor and my father found a pub and each drew a pint.

Could I possibly marry your daughter, Phil ventured.

Yes, countered Dad, as long as you bear in mind that Kate is from a Catholic family and your support will be needed to bring the children up Catholic too. Is that something you feel you can do?

There was a solemn silence while Phil pondered. And then he came out with the killer: Sure I can, he said, providing you are willing to help me bring them up as Manchester United football supporters.

My father promised solemnly so to do, and in vowing, he committed our side of the family to support a game of which we had never taken a blind bit of notice before.

Felix joined the team and Tuesdays and Saturdays have never been the same since.

Saturdays used to be lazy sleep-in days. Now I wake up itemising his football kit, and checking with Phil that we both know where the satellite navigation system is so we can range far and wide looking for strange football pitches in strange Shire villages.

Yesterday, Phil was very busy writing an academic assignment which must be in all too soon. He had sacrificed a day to look after the children when my migraine struck, and now he needed a clear weekend to write it.

So football was my job.

It became clear, as we got out at the latest away pitch, that there was a stiff wind blowing. The air, which had been so docile 24 hours before, had attitude.

The last thing it needed was a football in it.

Coaches and blokes indulged in chilly windswept camaraderie but the coach was looking peaky. When I enquired, it appeared the team’s star player – the one who keeps the ball away from my son – had not been well-behaved in the past week, and as a consequence he was grounded. And that meant he was not there to get that football flying through the air in the right direction.

We all shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Warm-up seemed to take forever, and I wished dearly that all of us, including that chilly little boy on the pitch, had put on two more layers of thermals.

And the game started. My son, because of his height, has followed a different path from his peers: he was selected very early on as the team’s goalkeeper.

A singular job. The odds are stacked against him in any penalty: he has strategic and leadership responsibility. His sports psychology must be tip-top so he can turn any defeat or enemy goal into an opportunity.

A decent kick from the goal can set up a chance at the other end of the pitch; and whenever a goal goes in, regardless of whether the defence has done its job or not, there is always someone ready to blame the goalie.

This is hard-man training for a little boy: moreover it is a sound and harrowing education for his clueless mother.

Yesterday the boys were doing their best, but it wasn’t coming together. As we slowly turned to ice on the sidelines, I watched a small boy in between what I perceived to be impossibly huge goalposts. Most of the play happened in his half and that ball just kept flying through the air at him.

Today he commented:”Mummy, it’s a strange thing, but the goal always looks too small when I first walk into it. And then as soon as the ball starts to come towards it, it seems to get bigger. Much bigger.”

Every few minutes another opposition goal flew through the air into the back of the net, and I was finding it hard to watch. I called Phil: “What do I say?” I implored. “How can I comfort him? The score is 6-0 (a groan as another went in) no, 7-0!”

The whistle finally blew and I tried not to fall over with relief.

The boys lined up and shook hands with the other team. I waited with notes from Phil on my iPhone. You did well, son, some great saves, you’re playing in a new league, it’s bound to be difficult at first…

And then I noticed him striding authoritatively towards the Referee. They exchanged words. Quite a lot of words, actually. What could possibly be going on?

My son was far from discouraged. In fact, he felt a couple of the goals would not have been allowed if the Ref’s whistle was working. He was correct, it was not.

Upon later interrogation, he alleges he was very polite. But he felt this whistle business was not good enough and the score might have been more balanced if it had been better managed. Moreover his friend the fiery little Portuguese centre forward was going to say some bad words to the Ref, and he felt his actions would stall this event satisfactorily.

He had handled those airborne missiles and his self esteem remained intact. The airborne resentment of the team had been diffused by his timely discussion. If there was something in the air, it had been resolved.

He was philosophical all the way home. Not down, or cowed. And I thought, I might keep it together a bit better on the sidelines next time.

Who knows.