The junior football season is upon us, and I’m here to crush some dreams

It’s been said that there is a better chance of winning the lottery than becoming a professional footballer – and we’re not talking here about winning a free lucky dip for matching two numbers.

Of the many thousands of boys (and increasing numbers of girls) who are taken on by the big club’s sprawling academies, just one in two hundred actually secures a pro contract – usually from the age of 16, after years of dedicating time, passion and money to a probable lost cause. And of those who are good enough to bag a deal with a Premier League team, 97 per cent never actually make it onto the field for a minute of top-flight action.

It is with these statistics in mind that I have been trying to dampen my son’s enthusiasm as he embarks on his first season with our local junior club. “Just enjoy it,” I tell him, after he repeats yet again his plan not to aim too high initially, looking to start out with MK Dons in League Two when he leaves school, before a transfer to Spurs.

I’ve spent most of the last six months suggesting gently that it’s probably not worth worrying too much about future ambitions, given that he’s yet to make his debut in the third tier of our town’s under-9s set-up. But such is his badgering insistence, that I’ve become the antithesis of a pushy football dad.

Where the pushy father shouts at his kid (and the ref) from the sidelines, and tells them to hold their chin up when they miss yet another open goal, I’d frankly be delighted if my boy packed it in before his first fixture. I can’t deny that’s partly a result of not wanting to spend rainy winter days on muddy fields; but I also worry about the excessive pressure that so many kids appear to place on themselves (or have placed there by parents who want a second shot at their own stardom).

Over the summer, therefore, after yet more tales about his glorious future career, I decided to tell my son the sad truth in simple terms. “Dude,” I yelled, as he shouted at me to pass more accurately, “I love you, but you’re never going to make it!”

It looks crushing written down, but rest assured, it’s not only his dream I’m happy to destroy. “Olly won’t make it either!” I went on. “Nor will Hugo! And Jack! In fact, no one at your school is going to be a pro footballer!”

He looked at me speculatively. “What about Archie?”

I was momentarily confuddled. I don’t know who Archie is and I’ve never seen him play football. Still, the chances seem slim. “Even Archie,” I declared.

“Wanna bet?” he went on, in the first clear hint of a footballer’s instinct.

“£100.” It seemed a sure-fire winner.

“Deal,” agreed the boy, convinced as he always is that I’m wrong and he’ll eventually be proved right.

This week I attended a meeting for new parents at our club, during which various coaches and managers discussed ethos, player development and the importance of parents behaving nicely. Everything was progressing well, with chuckles in all the right places from the appreciative audience. But then the club bigwig took a brave step.

“Playing here is all about the kids having fun,” he emphasised. “If any of you in the room tonight think your children are going to become pro footballers, please forget it now.”

I prepared to burst into a loud round of applause, but then I noticed the chill that had immediately descended. I think there was a hiss from the back, and one man muttered “speak for yourself”.

I wondered about backing him up. “I tell my son that all the time!” I could say. But sometimes it’s better to read the room and keep shtum.

When I got back from the meeting, I told my son all about it, and especially about the chances of any of the club’s players making it to the big time. But he’s a stubborn child, my lad, and he merely smiled a steely smile and said with a wink: “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

And if he proves me right, well, then I will hand over £100 and doff my hat to him – if I haven’t already eaten it.