Park Life: Blue is the colour, greed is the game - and I'm not playing

MY SON Darcy's eyes light up when he hears the football results on Saturday afternoon, and he's as pleased as punch that Chelsea are top of the table. He can intone "Come on you Bloo-oos" a couple of octaves lower than his normal eight-year-old's speaking voice. He knows how to shout "It's Franck Leboeuf!" when he makes a tackle, and "Flo shoots" when he has a shot on goal, but he would be hard-pressed to recognise most of the team. His support is more theoretical than physical - we live only two miles from Stamford Bridge, but Darcy might as well be in the Malaysian branch of the fan club for all his attendance.

I blame myself to some extent. After all, I encouraged him to support Chelsea when he first started showing an interest in football, and have singularly failed to take him to watch their matches since then. It is simply not realistic for fathers to shell out pounds 20 a head for tickets more than once or twice a season.

I nudged Darcy towards Chelsea on the basis that a boy should support his local club, fearing that left to his own devices he might opt for Manchester United, or worse still, Arsenal (Manchester United without the romance). How was I to know, just three or four years ago, that Chelsea, perennial mid-table under-achievers, were about to metamorphose into the epitome of a fashionable and wealthy football club?

As it happens, the family allegiance goes back more than 40 years. My father lived within striking distance of Stamford Bridge during the 1956 season when Chelsea won the Championship for the only time in their history. He used to boast that they were the worst team ever to win the league.

For myself, I spent my early football-supporting years watching Oxford United under the captaincy of the bulky but unskilled Ron Atkinson. He was known as "The Tank", and was perhaps the last of the flamboyant, champagne- swilling managers. In those days every football ground in the country was full of pre-pubescent boys, who spent much of the match keeping out of the way of thugs five years their seniors. I'm still oddly proud of having been punched in the head by a Manchester United fan, irate that his team had to slum it for a while in the old Second Division.

I don't want to rehearse once again the economic and safety reasons why top-flight professional football is now played in all-seater stadiums to crowds of season-ticket-holders who have paid up to pounds 1,000 for the privilege. Chelsea, greedy though they may be, are not alone; even mid- status clubs such as Derby County play mostly to sold-out crowds. But I'm not prepared to change my football-watching habits. I want to turn up for a match whenever the mood takes me - and I don't want another financial liability, to add to the job, the mortgage and the family.

So where does Darcy fit in? Well, he'll continue to get his treat of a live match once or twice a season if he's lucky, plus the occasional glimpse of his heroes on television. In future years, no doubt he'll look for ways of going to Stamford Bridge more often, although I doubt whether there are enough highly paid chores around the house for him to become a Chelsea regular.

And there's always Fulham, Chelsea's neighbours and traditional rivals, where I can give Darcy a taste of the good old days. We'll turn up a few minutes before 3pm and stand on the terrace munching hot dogs while a bunch of footballers who can't speak a word of French or Italian, and haven't got a World Cup-winner's medal between them, labour around the pitch.

But I'll have to coach Darcy carefully on the way there. I've just heard of a father who, unwilling or unable to pay Stamford Bridge prices, took his young son to watch Fulham instead. "Dad," the little voice piped up five minutes into the match, "which colour is Chelsea wearing?" Oh dear - rumbled.