Happy Fathers Day: The Joy and Pain of being a Father

Being a father is to be in a continuous state of joy and pain, to quote the great philosopher Frankie Beverly and Maze.

Fathers don't often talk about how it feels to be a father. We are stoic, calm, in control. We are big. We fix things. We laugh in the face of a spider in the bath.

But inside, from the very first moment we become a father, in fact even before - as soon as we know we will become one - a father is plunged into a world of joy and pain.

Fathers, have you had that Sunday afternoon experience? You lie dozing on the sofa in the afternoon sun with your new, tiny baby lying on your tummy, fast asleep, totally relaxed, totally safe with daddy. You can literally smell baby's head just under your nose. A sleepy, tiny hand reaches up and touches your cheek. You. Are. Father. Nothing bad will ever happen to your child.

Then you are suddenly overwhelmed with fear and fury. How are you going to stop this terrible world trying to hurt your baby? Are you strong enough to protect baby? Can you really be the father baby deserves? You are not good enough. You are already a failure. Why oh why couldn't baby have a better father?

Joy and Pain. Like Sunshine and Rain.

I remember taking my daughter for a walk in the pushchair. I strode down the street like a Don. Stand aside, little people. A FATHER IS COMING THROUGH. Oh the Joy. Then a car drove past. A normal car. Nothing special. A little bit of smoke came out of its exhaust. Smoke that my little bundle of joy might have breathed in! Rage, rage, rage. That car must be crushed. All cars must be crushed. All bad things must be crushed. I Am Father and I bring righteous fury down on your head if you do anything that hurts my little girl.

I took my son to rugby for the first time. Someone passed him the ball and he simply ran through all the other kids and scored as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I overheard someone on the touchline mutter "that new kid's pretty good". I showed no emotion, but inside I was screaming "I Am The Father. Me. Me. Yes Me. I Am The Father". Then someone tackled my boy. Tackled him! Hurt him. Hell and Damnation! I scanned the touchline to try to identify that other kid's father - I was ready to run round and tackle the foolish failure of a father. How DARE he allow his son to tackle mine? I will destroy him. I will go all Game of Thrones on him and his whole family. It will make the Red Wedding look like the Teddy Bears Picnic. Outwardly, I merely stood on the touchline with a slight smile on my face. But inwardly, oh the Joy and the Pain.

I walked my daughter to school. Halfway through the playground, she stopped and said, slightly embarrassed "Daddy you can go back now, you don't need to take me to the door". Oh. Okay. I said proudly as she walked off, a confident and independent tiny young woman. The Joy. The Pride. But inside, I knew that the time had come to throw myself into the dustbin of life. I was no longer needed. I was a liability. An embarrassment. My use as a so called father was at an end and it was probably best that I left home and lived the rest of my life as a homeless person with all the other fathers who had been cast out onto the scrapheap of fatherhood. She was six years old.

I used to wrestle with my son. We would wrestle and laugh. I would hold him down with one hand while drinking a cup of tea with the other. Tai Chi I would say as I used my skills to twist his arm and force him to the ground. We would exhaust ourselves wrestling and laughing. A mighty Father with his young cub of a son. Oh the Joy. Now the cub is HUGE. The father looks on with admiration, with joy. Until he shoulder barges me and sends me flying across the room. Whoops, Dad, did I crush you and your masculinity into the dust by accident as if you were nothing? Sorry old man. I expect to hear David Attenborough narrating "the young cub with his glistening fur and muscles of steel drives away the mangy old former head of the pride into the wild where it will eat scraps and die a lonely and unloved death and be eaten by vultures...". I've seen those programs. I know how it ends.

A father loves and protects. Every time his little child, who is now big and confident, steps out of the house he is filled with joy and with pain in equal measure. When the children become adults and step out with their own friends and he realises that he is slipping down the huggable league table, he is so filled with joy that the young ones are happy and so filled with pain that he will never again experience the true, unalloyed hug that only a four year old child can give their mighty, all seeing, all knowing, all terrified father.

Happy Fathers Day, all you Fathers out there. And if you have someone who is a father to you, you've brought him a lot of joy and a lot of pain so give them a hug like only a four year old child can. I forgot to hug mine last time I saw him and I wish I had.

In the worlds of the Wise One, Frankie Beverly and Maze....

"Where there's a flower there's the sun and the rain
Oh and it's wonderful there both one in the same
Joy and pain like sunshine and rain"

Play rugby not football

I am sure you will all agree with me that rugby is a much better game than football (that's "soccer" to some of you). In particular, if we want to produce a nation of entrepreneurs then it is vital that we abandon all junior football related activity immediately and divert all attention and resources into mini-rugby.

The reasons are obvious. I observed them again first hand at the London Irish mini-rugby festival last Sunday. I spent 9 hours down in Sunbury, with 2,000 other people, coaches, dads, mums and of course the hundreds of young players themselves from across the UK and Ireland.

It's not so much the game itself. After all if people want to run around in dinky little shorts to kick a ball around that's there business. But there is a real contrast between the average junior football session and a mini-rugby match

There are four things kids will learn if they take up mini-rugby that will stand them in good stead for starting up businesses.

First, rugby is a hard, hard game. You play hard, take knocks, hit the ground hard, shake your head, get right back up and get straight back in to the game. If you writhe around on the floor shouting "Referee, it's not fair" then the game moves on and you get left behind.

Second, rugby is a team game, and it takes all sorts. Big guys in the front row. Lanky lads at Number 8. Tiny, speedy guys on the wing. It's great to see all the lads in all their diverse glory on a Sunday morning playing for the team. You don't want to be the "superstar" because the opposition will make it their business to squish you.

Third, the rules are the rules. You play by them, you play to the whistle and if the Ref says "penalty" it's a penalty and that's it. Don't mess with a rugby ref. Football refs are, well, different.

Finally, rugby dads are a breed apart. We all played rugby about 30 years ago, so we all think we know how to play now. We are all there on the sidelines, screaming away, shouting "Drive over, drive over", "take him down", "tackle him, the bigger they are the harder they fall, son" and the good old "come on, get up and get back in there you woose, it's only an ear, you've got another one haven't you?". But we never shout at the ref and we never shout at the opposition Dads.

And at the end of every mini-rugby match, no matter how hard and painful it was, no matter whether the ref was great or rubbish, no matter whether it was a friendly or the Cup Final, all the boys line up and shout "Three Cheers" for the other team and then they shake hands. Woah betide the one boy who is so upset that he doesn't want to cheer the other team off and shake hands. He will suddenly find a group of Dads and coaches telling him to get over there with the rest of the boys, after all "this isn't football you know".

So, the boys learn to play hard and bounce back from hard knocks. They learn that teamwork is everything and if you try to be a superstar you are going to get hit. They learn to play full on but to play by the rules. They learn the value of a good, hard coach and they learn to respect the opposition.

I can't think of a better set of rules for being an entrepreneur.

Mind you, when it comes to making big money, those ball juggling glory boys over in the football camp have got that wrapped up. And it's not like I hate football. After all I do support what is generally accepted to be the best team in the Premiership.

But on any given Sunday in the winter season, come rain or shine you will find me and my boy down at London Irish learning how to live life the rugby way.