THE text message from my wife came through at 2.30pm in the middle of a meeting at work: "Don't forget - school football tournament - 3pm."

I had forgotten but I couldn't miss it. It was a parents' tournament to raise money for the school and I'd promised football-mad Jack I'd take part.

He'd told all his mates I was an ace goalie who'd once had a trial for Arsenal. I'd said it in a rash moment several years ago and one day I'll get round to confessing that it was a little red and white lie.

There were two reasons I had to play in the parents' tournament: One, it was a chance to be a hero in front of Jack and I couldn't let him down. Two, his mother had told me I'd better be there or else, and she's more scary than Sir Alex Ferguson in a half-time rage.

The meeting at work was called to an abrupt halt. I flew home, dumped the pin-stripe suit and shiny shoes for a tracksuit and trainers and made it to the school with five minutes to spare.

I was wondering which team I was playing for when a mum called Sally ran over and said: "You're in goal in the ladies' match. Is that OK?"

"The ladies' match?"

"Yes, we're short of mums so we've put you in goal," she explained.

"Right," I mumbled, already wondering how Jack was going to feel about his Dad playing in a ladies' match. More to the point, how would he feel if his Dad - he who almost made it with Arsenal - conceded a goal in a ladies' match?

There was so much riding on it, I was more nervous than David Seaman in his first cup final.

Ours was the first game on and I could see Jack sitting on the sidelines with his mates. I waved but he didn't wave back. Probably too embarrassed.

I'm going to get into an awful lot of trouble saying this but our team wasn't much good. Miss Frost, one of the teachers and supposedly my central defender, screamed every time the ball came near her as if it might explode if she touched it.

I was just thinking that none of the ladies were up to much when the opposition's centre-forward proved me wrong. She got hold of the ball on the half-way line, advanced menacingly as a shrieking Miss Frost ran out of her way, and unleashed a fearsome shot.

It hit me straight between the legs. I saw stars, fought for breath, and had flashbacks to my vasectomy (11.42am, October 8, 1997). Luckily, the ball - the one we were playing with - bounced away to safety and gave me time to recover my composure.

Just like the vasectomy, it was a close shave but somehow - and no thanks to Miss Frost - we managed to hold out until there was only a minute left.

As the seconds ticked by, their demon striker made one last bid for glory.

With defenders stepping aside like the parting of the Red Sea, she was clean through with only me to beat.

Ignoring the throbbing in my shorts, and, thinking of Jack, I raced from the goal-line. My heart pounding, I dived heroically at her feet, grabbing the ball and sending her tumbling.

As the final whistle went, I had a mum lying on top of me and it suddenly occurred to me that I could get used to ladies' football.

Honours even, we all shook hands on a goalless draw. Naturally, I offered to swap shirts but they all politely declined.

Disappointing, but at least I kept a clean sheet for Jack.