I’m 53 now. A father, a realist – no longer the football-obsessed lad who’d plan life around kick-off.
But I remember him. He’d scream at the telly like it mattered. He’d risk Sunday roast politics over a Champions League final.
The other day, someone asked “What hurts more – childbirth or your team losing the final?” I choked on my pastel de nata.
Having witnessed childbirth – and felt the soul-crushing agony of a 93rd-minute exit – I sort of get to compare. Not scientifically, but emotionally.
Truth is, both leave a mark. One teaches you strength. The other reminds you how much you care.
These days, I find peace not in scorelines but sunsets, dogs, silence, and stories.
So what hurts more? Depends who’s asking – the lad I was, or the man I’ve become.
And anyway… you can always win the Champions League next year.
Try telling that to a woman in labour.
