“He says it’s learning.”
“He would say that.”
“I think he just likes space,” Alfie says quietly.
I laugh softly. “I'm sure he does.”
I swivel slightly in my chair and look out at the training pitch. When I was Alfie’s age my dad stood on muddy sidelines every Sunday. Never said much. He was just there.
Now he walks Alfie to school and tries to share his enthusiasm for everything science.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Are you famous here?”
I pause.
“Some people know me.”
“Why?”
“Because I used to play football.”
“I know that bit.”
I wait.
“They had your picture in the shop.”
“That happens sometimes.”
“You looked grumpy.”
“I probably was.”
“Why?”
“Because someone asked me a not nice question.”
“About football?”
“Probably.”
He considers this.
“I don’t think football questions are important.”
I smile. “That’s because you’re sensible.”
“I like science better.”
“That's smart.”
And I mean it without disappointment. He doesn’t need to be me. He just needs to be him.
That part matters more than goals ever did.
