Julie Jay: My stubborn determination for my son to play GAA is paying off 

Like all sports autobiographies, our football journey has so far been one of dizzying heights and terrifying lows

Julie Jay: "He stayed at training for the full hour. And I couldn’t have been prouder of him. So proud was I that we treated ourselves to a doughnut and telly. No doubt it's the midmorning snack of many an All Ireland champion."

I have been threatening to bring Number One to football training for quite a while now, but I said I’d hold off until the weather was better because of his delicate chest and because I hate getting my fleece wet.

We are now officially in training session three, and like any great sports autobiography, so far, it has been a journey of dizzying highs and terrible lows.

Daddy brought him to the first session, and his follow-up report contained an infuriating number of information gaps. When quizzed how Number One got on, he casually threw out worrying statements like: ‘Well, he really liked sitting down in the stand’, and ‘Maybe football isn’t for him. Does Dingle have a running club?’

I had to tell him to knock it off with the alternative sports, given that our little guy was only just starting out. Surely, we shouldn’t be writing him off completely based on 60 minutes of running around a sports field, 10 minutes of which were spent on water breaks.

Because life got in the way, we didn’t bring Number One back to training for quite a while, meaning that I had to touch base with the club before venturing back, for fear that we had been banned for life in the interim.

‘Welcome to Dingle GAA!’ came the text, and suddenly it all felt a bit like Gangs of New York. Our allegiance had been verified by my semi-casual inquiry, and there was no going back now.

Sadly, my first attempt at bringing Number One to football did not pan out as I had hoped. We were merrily skipping along in the direction of the pitch, only for him to physically baulk at the suggestion of going in when we reached the gate.

"I don’t like football," he protested, and despite whipping out all my usual go-to tools (cajoling, begging, bribery), nothing was getting this guy across the 20-metre line.

Eventually, I had to accept defeat, reminding myself that I too had never been into group sports and that not liking football did not equate with the pariah status it might have back in the day.

Julie Jay: "He stayed at training for the full hour. And I couldn’t have been prouder of him. So proud was I that we treated ourselves to a doughnut and telly. No doubt it's the midmorning snack of many an All Ireland champion."

An ex once described me as a dog with a bone, which, though I decided to take as a compliment at the time, I don’t think he meant in a good way. But the man with dubious taste in music (he was big into Limp Bizkit) might have been right about my determination to persevere with my son's involvement with the GAA.

Thankfully, the following Sunday, after the most unholy of tantrums outside the sportsfield, Number One was much happier to toddle to training, no doubt helped by the fact that his favourite townie friend, a friend he usually only bumps into in the playground, was going to be there. (I had made his mother swear the day before she would take him, explaining that I needed her child as a carrot.)

To my delight, Number One took part in virtually all activities, even if his ability to follow instructions left quite a bit to be desired.

I couldn’t help but think back to my own sports experiences. PE was always a humbling class, given that indoor soccer was not something you could rote-learn like an equation.

It was clear that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, watching my little guy give it a whirl. When he heard 'catch', he threw. When he heard 'kick', he threw. When he heard 'hand-pass', he most definitely threw.

Still, he stayed for the full hour. And I couldn’t have been prouder of him. So proud was I that we treated ourselves to a doughnut and telly. No doubt it's the midmorning snack of many an All Ireland champion.

The following week rolled around faster than you could say, ‘I meant to buy a ball and practise some skills in the interim,’ and so we returned to training having not put in much of a shift in the garden.

The weather was less clement the week before, and our favourite townie friend had failed to materialise — and even though he is only four, I think he needs to take this more seriously. Just as I was about to give up hope of ever getting Number One down from the stand, another child popped up with a frisbee, which I’m fairly confident is the official ball used in Aussie Rules.

The toy immediately entranced Number One, and I mentally wrote this one off as a day when training had not gone fully according to plan. But then suddenly this same child who had lent Number One his frisbee was teaching him hand positions, and tricks to catch the ball, and before I knew it, my boy was happily passing the ball to him, delighted with himself.

As we walked home, he told me that he had packed colours and paper in his bag before training in case he got bored.

"But I don’t think I need it for next week, Mammy," he chirped, as we strutted towards home. "Because I play football now."

Maybe we have the next David Clifford on our hands after all, but I might still pack the colours in the water bag, just in case.