The final whistle
This week I watched my 17-year-old son play his last game of football for his school. It was a Cup final.
After Easter he has exams. Then he’ll be off to university.
I’ve watched him play hundreds of games since he was about six. Saturdays in the rain. Sundays too.
I’ve seen him score absolute worldies.
I’ve seen him get bullied off the pitch.
I’ve watched him break bones.
I’ve watched him make friends.
I’ve watched him become himself, one sliding tackle at a time.
And now it’s over.
I didn’t expect it to hit me like this. I'm not naïve. I know how time works. I know kids grow up. I know chapters end.
I just didn’t realise how much of my life had been organised around football.
Or how much of my relationship with him lived in those small gaps between games.
The football was fun, of course. But the football wasn’t the best bit.
The best bit was the car.
Football Was the Excuse
There’s something about sitting side-by-side in a car that makes conversation easier.
No eye contact. No intensity. No “So… how are you really feeling?”.
On the way there, we’d do pre-match tactics. Not because he needed them. Let’s be honest. By the time they’re teenagers, they know more about the game than you do. Or at least they think they do...
But because it was our ritual. My way of saying: I’m here. And I care.
On the way back, we’d do post-match analysis. Sometimes it was detailed. Sometimes it was just:
“Unlucky.”
“You were great.”
“Ref was shocking.”
And sometimes, it wasn’t about football at all. Sometimes it was school. Friends. Stress. Life.
Sometimes it was nothing at all. Just a comfortable silence between two people who didn't need to fill every gap with noise.
Those drives were like a sneaky portal into his world.
And now the portal has closed.
About Growing Up
People talk about kids leaving home like it’s one big moment.
A dramatic goodbye at the front door. A car packed with duvets, saucepans, and irrational optimism. But it's not like that.
It happens in small endings.
The last time you pick them up from a party.
The last school play.
The last parents’ evening.
The last match.
After that, you don’t stop being their parent. You just stop having a built-in reason to be one.
This isn’t a sob story, by the way. I’m proud of him. He’s ready. He’s done the work. He’s earned his next chapter.
It's just that when the routines disappear, the relationship has to stand on its own.
Routines Are the Real Relationship
A lot of family connection is accidental. Not in the sense that it doesn’t matter. In the sense that you don’t have to plan it. It's easy.
You’re in the same house. You eat at similar times. You share calendars. You bump into each other in the hallway. You have default time together.
When kids are younger, closeness is built into the system. But as they get older, the system changes. And then it disappears entirely.
That’s why these “endings” sting. They’re not just sentimental. They’re structural.
Football gave us:
- a reason to be together every week
- a shared language
- a storyline we both cared about
- natural moments for advice, support, and banter
- a time where phones couldn’t fully win
And the genius part is that none of it felt like “parenting.” It just felt like life.
Which is exactly why it worked. And now I’m left with a simple question:
What replaces it?
My New Job
When people talk about parenting older kids, they often slip into clichés.
“Treasure every moment.”
“It goes so fast.”
“You’ll miss these days.”
Yes. True. Helpful? Not really.
Here’s what I think I need to do now: if I want to stay close to my kids as they become adults, I need to create new rituals.
Not big dramatic ones. Small, repeatable, low-pressure ones. Because the old rituals were doing the work that I need to do now.
I need to find the sweet spot between helicopter, cringe parenting and withdrawing, and pretending that they're fine. Pretending that they don't need me anymore.
The aim is to be steady. Be consistent. And not to make it about me.
What I’m Not Going To Do
I’m not going to pretend I don’t care.
I’m not going to turn into one of those dads who only talks about “the future” and “opportunities” because emotions make them uncomfortable.
I’m not going to make him responsible for my feelings either.
So I’m going to do the adult thing.
I’m going to tell him that I loved it. (I did. Every single minute).
I’m going to tell him that I’m proud of him. (I am).
I’m going to tell him that I’ll miss it. (Boy will I miss it...).
And then I’m going to keep showing up.
A Small Reframe That Helps (A Bit)
The thing I’m mourning isn’t football.
It’s a very specific form of closeness. It’s the end of the era where his world and mine overlapped by default.
University changes that. But it doesn’t erase what we've built. If anything, it reveals it.
Because what we built over all those years standing in muddy fields in the rain wasn’t a set of weekly matches.
It was trust.
And trust travels.
Trust means that when he’s stressed, he knows he's safe. Trust means that when something goes wrong, he won’t feel like he has to perform competence for me. Trust means he can call, rant, swear, say something stupid, backtrack, change his mind, and still feel loved.
That’s the real win.
Not trophies. Not goals. Not even worldies.
Trust.
So What Now?
If you’re reading this as a parent, or as someone who had a parent who showed up, there’s a bigger point here.
Most of the best stuff in life comes wrapped in something ordinary.
Football is ordinary.
So is the school run. Washing up. Walking the dog. Doing an Asda trip that somehow takes 90 minutes.
We spend years rushing through the ordinary stuff to get to the “important” stuff.
Then one day the ordinary stuff ends, and we realise it was the important stuff.
So here’s my suggestion.
Don’t wait for the final whistle. Build the moments now. And if your final whistle has already happened, build the next ritual anyway.
It’s not too late. It's never too late.
Until next time,
Jon “Manager of the Year” Kaye
Choosing to live more deliberately