Adults in the sin bin

THE scene: a weekend soccer pitch, Australian suburbia. Two teams of primary school kids and a dad on the sidelines, letting rip with a foul-mouthed tirade at the ref. Children in earshot - on the field, among the spectators.

 I've seen it and cringed, seen the shock of the kids confronted by it. The diminishing little episodes feel sourly adult, the aggro so removed from what the kids are there to actually do: have fun, be with mates, learn some skills. Recently, Hawthorn coach Alastair Clarkson swore at a 19-year-old official during his son's under-nine match; Clarkson, who'd been acting as a runner, was ordered to leave the field. Geelong goal umpire Tiffany Farrow, 15, has had rocks thrown at her in senior games but says junior matches are worse: "I've found [parents] the worst spectators to have because they always think their son is right, or that I'm not because they missed a goal."

There are mates who'll say yours truly is the person least qualified to write about this - as, er, the ultimate anti-spectator. Yes, the one who fled these fair shores in terror as the world's most non-sporty Australian. Ditto the chap. Yet somehow we've bred two soccer-obsessed mini chaps who live, breathe and dream the beautiful game. Isn't nature wonderful? Their parents: the pathetic lot who use the weekly footy match to catch up on blissful slabs of reading. Mates will swear blind the head's never been raised from the iPad; in fact a friend nudges me with "look up mum" at crucial moments (for this, eternal gratitude).

But enough games have been witnessed over the years to wonder at the heart-breaking, exhilarating psychodrama of it all. Favourite player: the little goalie, for sheer courage in volunteering for that thankless task. Favourite match time: those last five minutes when everything's charged, desperate, tiny hearts bursting as they try to sway the game, retrieve the honour. Favourite mum moment of awe: the seasons when they've endured crushingly long losing streaks, yet every week they've strapped on their shinpads, bursting with hope, anticipation, the sheer moving love of the game. Plunging eagerly back into the fray, week after week, this time, maybe ...

A lot's been written recently about why continental Europe's producing better teams than England (and Australia, of course). Portuguese football manager Jose Mourinho: "In England you teach your kids to win. In Portugal and Spain they teach their kids how to play football." I can vouch for that. A group of young Brazilian men sometimes end up on our local beach at twilight, soccer ball in tow. It's beautiful to watch (all right, girls, beautiful in many ways to watch). But they're playing, above all, generously passing the ball; twisting, leaping, diving; it's almost balletic. The local kids join in; everyone has a blast. "We play like this on the streets, it's life, how we were raised," explained one. Albert Capellas, formerly FC Barcelona's youth coordinator, said: "It's very important for us that the boys have respect for others. They have to be good people, like gentlemen." That spirit feels a world away from the parents venting their immature rage every weekend across Australia.

We're all outraged now, about so much. The hurt, the affront is everywhere and don't we bleat it, furiously? The modern world feels like a tinderbox of indignation, fuelled by a sense of entitlement, an erosion of civility, a simmering anger. Adults are often far worse than the kids. I'm guilty. Beeping the horn when driving, groaning at cyclists, swearing. And from the back of the car? Stunned silence. From kids who are better than me. Who've had it drummed into them that they're not allowed to cuss. If I'm feeling big enough I'll apologise, but the car invariably feels grubbied, soured, in those telling silences. I'm not proud of my flashes of childish outrage. Are you?