The ball dribbled agonisingly over the line. Before long more followed – one a header, another a fluffed shot which deceived the keeper.

"Never mind boys, it was the first game," said the manager. "And there were positives."

My youngest son's team of under-13s had started where they had finished last season – losing. In this case 3-0. It could have been worse – the other team looked as though they were two years older, and twice as big.

My older son was playing in the afternoon. Just time to dash home for chicken and mayo sandwiches. Maybe his side would win.

Last season had not been brilliant. Or perhaps, to be more accurate, it had been a series of defeats interrupted only by Christmas and the occasional match cancelled because of bad weather.

But after a couple of minutes of optimism as the under-16 campaign began, reality returned in the form of an avalanche of goals.

I sportingly applauded when the other team scored. At least I did for the first four... well, maybe five. Then I looked gingerly at my watch. We were just 11 minutes into the game.

Heads had already begun to drop and that was just amongst the parents. As the second half got underway we fell into a familiar routine of touchline banter.

"So how many is it now?" asked one dad, a look of comic horror etched across his face.

"Well... it's... 11, really," I said.

I had scarcely finished speaking when it was 12. A brilliant strike by one of those six feet tall players that every other team in the league seems to have except us.

By now our opponents had long since given up any pretence that this was a contest. This was high farce.

I looked across at my son. He had a care-worn expression on his face. He reminded me of a young Alan Ball – though surely he was never on the end of such a hammering.

Just enough time left for goal number 14 to thunder past our destitute keeper before the referee brought things mercifully to an end.

We gathered around a losing side for the second time in less than five hours.

Mums and dads offered words of consolation.

These hadn't gone down very well with the 12-year-olds that morning. The boys of 15 simply grunted in response.

This was, of course, just the start. There will be next Sunday, and the one after that, and so on into winter, when it will no doubt rain a lot and there will be pitches where there is not even a bush to shelter from the wind and the hail.

So why do we do it? Why do we suffer the cold and wet? Why do we endure the indignity of seeing our boys beaten by rugby scores?

Because we love it, and we remember what it was like to be schoolboys who loved to play football, and because, like them, we approach every match hoping that we will win.

And to prove it as we drove away, my eldest son looked up from easing off his boots.

Only minutes had passed since we had been trounced out of sight.

But he said: "You know, Dad, this may sound daft but I've got a good feeling about our next match."