One Day, Your Favourite Athlete Will Be Younger Than You — already excellent; the premise is immediately clear.

One Day, Your Favourite Athlete Will Be Younger Than You

Nobody warns you about this.

One day you’re watching sport and a ridiculously talented player does something ridiculous.

The commentator says:

“And remember, he’s only 19.”

Nice.

Good for him.

Then your brain makes the completely unnecessary decision to calculate the age difference.

You are 27.

He’s 19.

You have just watched someone eight years younger than you perform in front of 60,000 people while you are lying horizontally on a sofa eating something directly from the packet.

Excellent.

Athletes used to be adults

I’m certain of this.

When I was a kid, every professional athlete looked approximately 38.

They had mortgages.

They understood taxes.

They probably knew how boilers worked.

Even the 21-year-olds looked like grown men who could confidently speak to a bank manager.

You watched them because they were somewhere in the distant category of adults who have figured things out.

Then, without consulting you, sport changed.

Suddenly the new superstar was born in 2007.

2007?

I remember 2007.

You should not be allowed to represent your country if I can remember the year you were born.

There should be paperwork.

Then commentators make it worse

They absolutely love mentioning age.

“What maturity for a 20-year-old.”

Thank you.

Very helpful.

Meanwhile, at 20, I considered successfully making pasta without checking the packet twice a significant personal achievement.

This person is taking a penalty in a World Cup.

“He’s been dreaming about this his whole life.”

His whole life?

His whole life has been 7,300 days.

I’ve had passwords older than him.

Eventually you start supporting children

Not actual children.

Obviously.

But emotionally, that’s what it feels like.

A 19-year-old misses an easy chance and instead of getting angry, something inside you goes:

Ah, he’s young. He’ll learn.

Excuse me?

When did I become this person?

Five years ago I was shouting tactical advice at professional athletes as though the manager might suddenly turn towards the television and say:

“Wait. Everyone be quiet. The person in flat 3B has an idea.”

Now I’m concerned about whether the players are getting enough rest.

The retirement announcements are where things get serious

Your childhood favourite announces they’re retiring.

And that feels wrong.

They can’t retire.

They were 24 approximately three weeks ago.

You look it up.

They’re 37.

You immediately close Google because clearly Google has started spreading misinformation.

Then a highlight compilation appears.

You remember watching half of those moments live.

The old kits.

The terrible television graphics.

The hairstyles we apparently accepted without resistance.

And suddenly sport has accidentally provided a timeline of your own life.

Rude.

I only came here to watch the match.

Eventually someone calls a player “old”

This is the final insult.

The commentator says:

“At 32, he’s entering the later stages of his career.”

Thirty-two.

Later stages.

You are sitting there at 31 thinking you’ve only recently worked out which washing-machine setting you’re supposed to use.

Apparently this man should begin preparing for retirement because his knees have seen enough.

Sport has a completely unreasonable relationship with age.

At 18: exciting prospect.

At 23: entering his prime.

At 29: experienced.

At 33: veteran.

At 37: medical miracle.

In normal life, 37-year-olds are still saying they’re “thinking about what they want to do next.”

But I think I actually like this part

Not the ageing.

Could do without that.

But there’s something nice about watching the roles quietly change.

First, athletes are your heroes.

Then they’re your age.

Then they’re younger than you.

Eventually you’re watching some 18-year-old make their debut and thinking:

I hope this goes well for them.

Which is a completely different kind of support.

You’re no longer imagining becoming them.

You’re just happy to watch them become themselves.

Still, I have one request for sports broadcasters.

Please stop showing players’ birth years on screen.

Tell me their position.

Tell me their statistics.

Tell me their favourite breakfast if you have to.

But if someone was born in 2008 and is already earning £100,000 a week, that information contributes absolutely nothing to my enjoyment of the match.

Some statistics are better kept private.

Especially theirs.

And increasingly,

mine.