I used to actively dislike football. To those who know me, that will be a shock, but it’s true. Until the age of about 11, and much to my dad’s frustration, I was a proud advocate of that all-too-common of phrases, “Football is just a group of people kicking a ball around.”

That all changed in 2014. I was at my grandparents’ house with my dad, watching Arsenal play Hull City in the final of the prestigious FA Cup.

Arsenal went 2-0 down. It was disastrous. Conceding one goal in a Cup Final was difficult to recover from, but to have to overcome a two-goal deficit, that was a mountain.

Then we got a free-kick on the edge of the Hull City penalty area, about 20 yards from goal. Our Spanish maestro, Santiago Cazorla, stepped up to take it. It soared straight into the top corner of the net, leaving the goalkeeper with no chance. We had a chance. Then, late on in regulation time, our superb centre-back Laurent Koscielny steered the ball in after it was hammered into the box. This sent the game to an extra half-hour of play. With 11 minutes left, Aaron Ramsey poked home to send Gunners’ supporters into ecstasy. Among them, were me, my dad, my nan, and my grandad. This was the moment when I fell in love with the Beautiful Game.

After the Cup Final, there was the 2014 Brazil World Cup. I remember I watched almost every game. Among other beautiful moments, I remember the euphoria with which Mario Goetze wheeled away after volleying home the winner for Germany against Argentina. It’s unfortunate for him that his career has stuttered slightly since then, but I sincerely hope he can fulfil his superb potential and get back to the highest echelons of his game.

After this tournament, I decided that now I wanted to play. I did a bit already. I’d sometimes go down to the park with my dad, and my old dog, Darcy, darting around our feet as we played. Those were honestly some of the best times I can remember, and in all honesty, they did more to make me love football than any Cup Final, any World Cup ever could. So, to my dad I have to say a sincere thank you.

I also wanted to play in a bit more of a competitive environment. I was home-educated at the time, and I went to a football training club which was run for home-ed children like me. If it was those days down the park that gave me a love for playing the game, it was this that gave me confidence in my abilities.

For the first few sessions I was hopeless. I was rather shy meeting all of these new people, and was reluctant to get stuck in like the rest of them. But then, on the fourth or fifth week, I scored about seven goals in our training game. Something clicked in my mind, or my feet perhaps, and from then on I played with freedom and conviction.

After just having fun in an informal setting for a while, I decided that I wanted to take the next step. I wanted to start playing Sunday League, and be truly competitive. It was something that, with the faith instilled in me by my dad and my coach, I felt I could really do to a high level.

It took me about two and a half years to find a team. I must have trialled at about eight local teams in that period, yet none would have me. Mostly it was because I had no experience. I also had an irritatingly painful knee problem at the time, which often hampered my playing ability in trials.

It took me about two and a half years to finally find a team, and it was one of the best moments of my life, after my trial, when the manager told me he’d like me to join. Some of you reading this may scoff, but it genuinely did mean a lot to me. After such a long time being rejected by club after club, it was euphoric to finally be able to play competitively the sport I love.

I’ve played for three teams, and none of them have been particularly amazing. I’ve finished bottom of the league twice, and kind of won it once (the team was dissolved before we were told that we were champions). But results don’t matter even a little bit. What matters is that I’ve been playing, and loving it, making some brilliant friends along the way.

One moment which stands out among all of the rest for me was when I scored my first goal. I was playing in central midfield, and we had taken an early lead in the game. The ball bounced in front of me, about 25 yards from goal, and, with my weaker left foot, I let fly. The vastly over-inflated Mitre football dipped and swerved, past the hapless goalkeeper, into the top left corner. That was the good part. Then I celebrated. I’m not going to describe it, but let’s just say that after the earful I got off my assistant manager, I have since kept the Sunday League tradition of running back to the half-way line as quickly as possible whenever I score a goal.

So that’s how I found my love for the Beautiful Game. I hope you enjoyed reading, and if you did, please check out some of my other posts.