Like most parents, there is not much I wouldn’t do for my children; being a parent seems to be 80 per-cent self sacrifice and 20 per-cent fulfilment.

From the moment you make the switch from responsible adult to responsible parent, life is never quite the same again.

Somewhere in the dim recesses of memory, I have a vague recollection of lazy weekends that started around mid-morning, opportunities to read a paper in splendid isolation and even holidays that involved things other than child-centred activities.

Until relatively recently, being working parents, we had opted out of the mad timetable of children’s weekend sport that seems to afflict so many families.

Using a clever system, based mainly on bribery, we had managed to avoid chasing between football pitches, rugby fields and swimming pools, so that for at least two days of the week there was a degree of flexibility in family arrangements.

For the past few years we’ve looked on with a smirk at parents who have spent the weekends going in opposite directions, delivering their children to sports activities that seem to be akin to Olympic training. I have several close friends who get up at 5am on a Saturday for children’s swimming training; why, I will never understand, but apparently children love this. However, there was only so long we could hold back the floodgates. Come September this year we could protest no longer, and this contributed to my most recent Saturday morning, standing around a rugby pitch in East Sussex in the driving rain attempting to shout encouragement to a child who appeared to have neither interest nor enthusiasm for rugby.

Admittedly, this torture was not of his own choice but a selection for the school D-team.

While some children seem to be born with a competive gene, this is sadly lacking in our eldest son, Will. Having spent the past seven weeks of a new school trying to go completely unnoticed on a pitch, somehow he must have shown a glimmer of ability and so he found himself in a rugby kit that he’d managed to keep pristinely clean since term started. I can only imagine the level of skill from the boys who failed to make the cut; “the lucky ones”, as Will referred to them.

Rugby has always struck me as a very odd game to enjoy.

Played in the winter, usually on a wet, muddy pitch and with the sole intention of throwing yourself around at other players, trying to manhandle them to the ground while stopping a very illogically-shaped ball from crossing a line.

Despite my protestations, my younger two boys seem to enjoy it and my other half has even become a coach.

Having spent nearly two hours to get to the game, and after a full-scale argument over whose decision it was to bring the car with no sat-nav, accompanied by the sound of our youngest son throwing up into a carrier bag after endless miles on country roads, we arrived to witness the full extent of this torture.

There were 15 boys who looked about as enthusiastic as prisoners on death row, shivering while being lectured by the sports teacher.

What ensued could only be described as a total hammering.

Almost all of the boys managed to successfully avoid being within six feet of the ball. We tried to shout some positive encouragement. “Keep going, it’s nearly over” was probably the most constructive.

As the final whistle blew, it was clear we don’t have an undiscovered rugby talent in the family, or indeed in the school D-team.

He did at least get a vague smear of mud on his left kneecap, though I think this probably flew off an opponent’s boot as he ran past. The kit was still pretty immaculate.

The car journey home was a long one. We used every stock phrase in the parenting book about giving it a go, how proud we were of him for trying and not giving up, but the long and short of it is he hates rugby.

I totally don’t blame him; I would too. By the time Sunday night arrived I calculated we had spent 16 hours in parent spectator mode at one match/fixture or another.

What’s wrong with an Xbox? Monday back at work was a rest, a chance to stay in one place, in the warm for an eight-hour stint.

I’ll get them FIFA 15 for Christmas and who knows, with a bit of luck I may get a lie-in.

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