Roger, I remember you posting about your son's Hampden game. At around the same time my older boy's team in Bristol had won their league and their pictures were on a BBC site. I told him about the Hampden game, and he said "I'd be happy never playing again if I could say I played at Hampden". That's how much it meant to him, and (I suspect) any Scot.
My boast is that I played football at Wembley. I sometimes drop that into a conversation just for effect, but if I have time I explain that it was actually a Free Nelson Mandela concert, I had gone for a wee and on the way back some lads were at the back of a packed pitch area having a kickabout with a soft rubber ball. I joined in just as I was passing, and they kept giving me the ball back, so I ended up having a game.
By the time I got back to my mates in the stands, I was sweating like a pig. They said "jeez, how far are the toilets?"
My late dad never came to watch a game I played in, except for one, and I recently went onto Google Earth to locate the pitch where he saw me play. That's the extent to which stuff stays in kids memories, and I always think of these things when I try to figure out how I should bring up my own children.
To be fair to my dad, as a little fella I did make a point of saying to him that I didn't want him or my mum to come to games, so I can hardly complain, but he complied with that instruction until I stopped playing altogether!
