A childhood typically involves many tortures; whether it’s being forced to wear your mother’s choice of sickly civvies, enduring endless hours in maths class or, in my case, being made to watch football.

Like most children, I was a whippersnapper perplexed by the world. Large numbers and large humans (a.k.a. the ‘grown ups’) mused me to no end. A fundamental confusion that apparently also spread to the Football pitch.

This is because, in my childish silliness, I believed that the players who kicked a ball on the TV were, in fact, robots.

In my mind they were mechanical beings designed only with the ability to repel and attract a spherical object at the amusement of an entire crowd of cheering adults.

Perhaps this minor absence of sense stemmed from the precision of the players; they always seemed to be so accurate and never appeared tired or without fuel.

Although it can be said that I’m not the birdbrain that I once was with regards to this sport, I wouldn’t go as far as to say I understand it entirely.

I mean, grown men in a field kicking around a ball for millions of pounds? I think I’d sooner understand quantum physics!

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