Earl Woods bred a Tiger. Richard Williams spawned a couple of tennis Supergirls and Damir Dokic did his utmost with Jelena until she estranged herself from his obsessive clutches.
So I am going to follow in the footsteps of these and other noble sporting parents and breed me a megastar. I have serious reservations surrounding the ability of my seven Marks & Spencers shares to feed me in my retirement so will take the opportunity to live vicariously (and rather splendidly) through the sporting feats of my offspring.
Of course, this will be no easy task. First I must make the child. Then, devote at least the first ten years of his life to following my routines and punishing schedules until my prodigy is ready to sign his first endorsement deal.
He will be an all-rounder, thus maximising his chances of success by being multi-disciplined.
In his first year, as he shows signs of being able to crawl, I will strategically place red fluffy balls in his path, to get his young mind accustomed to the size and shape of a rolling Kookaburra.
In his next few years (and certainly no earlier than his second birthday) I will invest in a full suit of baby body padding and start hurling cricket balls at him (off my short run up of course) to stretch his reflexes and get his developing muscles used to ducking and weaving at the crease.
By the time he’s four, he’ll be catching high balls. By five, he’ll have the first signs of a decent yorker locked in to his repertoire and by six he’ll be a master of reverse swing.
He will be playing under eleven cricket by his seventh birthday and will have made his first TV appearance showcasing his talents. Those TV spots pay well.
He will debut for Northants at age twelve, thus becoming the youngest cricketer in history to play first class cricket and by this time, the endorsement door will be knocking so hard I will need to have it reinforced.
I can smell his success just thinking about it. Holidays in Barbados await (coinciding with an England ‘A’ tour of course). A mansion in Maidenhead will be mine with a pink Ferrari in the winding cobbled driveway.
My wife has just shouted out from the kitchen that she wouldn’t have a baby with a man as manipulative and obsessive as one who could sadistically predetermine the childhood of their own flesh and blood. (Actually she was more direct)
Bang goes that idea! I hope that Marks and Spencers shares soar over the next few decades!
