Jim White

On Sunday mornings Jim White has a choice of the following: go to Sainsbury's, buy trellising at B&Q, prune the roses, put up shelves, or stand alongside a park football pitch, his trousers wetter than a weekend in Llandudno, shoulder-to-shoulder with a collection of mums, dads, step-parents and same- sex life partners screaming at their offspring. You'll find him in the same place every week, failing to organise a bunch of lads into a football team while on the far side of the pitch his opposite number, a wannabe Mourinho in a tracksuit with his initials on the chest, marches up and down, shouting, always shouting. This is the story of Jim White's time as manager of his son's football team: the lows, the highs and the pile of dog pooh in the centre circle. At this level, it is not so much about passion, pride and belief as praying that your star centre forward has remembered his boots. Mostly, it is about the enduring relationship between fathers, sons and football. This is a story that no-one who has ever watched their child play sport will want to miss.

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