The football is fierce and it is windy and the air is brisk with it. None of the boys shiver though, they are red in the face. The determination not to let myself and Maurice down. We scream our instructions at them from the sidelines and our voices begin to falter, and soon I feel that they are nothing more than rasps in the wind.

Fuck this wind, Maurice, I say.

It’s going to flatten them, it’s against them. Fuck, Des, that’s another one in.

I shout for the goalkeeper to be changed. I wave my arms. The boys do their best. They lean in hard and for under-elevens they show a tenaciousness. They play entrenched in the mud. Mud leaves the pitch and lands on legs, arms and shorts. The opposition up their attack, their coach curses blue murder and he paces the ground as though he is dealing with the national squad.

The full-time whistle comes, and everyone tries their best to act like it doesn’t matter.

Look, lads, seven one. That’s not a bad place to be, not a bad score, hang in there, lads, you showed true spirit. Right then, that’s it, let’s wrap this up.

On the way home in the car, Mikey and Joey joke about in the back seat, doing bottle flips. I tell them to stop doing bottle flips in the car because it’s distracting me. Joey says he’s hungry and Mikey talks about rashers and sausages. I hope Jenny is preparing our breakfast. I look at my sons through the rear view mirror and stroke my beard. There’s a bit of spittle at its end on account of all my shouting. I rub it out and the radio is on in the background.

What is this shite? Don’t worry about being broken into. Everyone has that fear, let them be, I say to myself.

Dad, you’re talking to the radio, says Mikey.

No, son, the radio is talking to me and it’s talking a whole load of shite, like I said.

I am a damn good father and a damn good husband, and a damn good cook.