ON SUNDAY evening I had the pleasure of being a part of someone’s first Roar match.

It was not the first time I have been a part of someone’s indoctrination in to our Brisbane-based sect of the football faith. I have taken friends, girlfriends and even the fathers of friends to Roar games over the years with mixed results.

Most have enjoyed it immeasurably and returned to soak up the atmosphere on further occasions. Some have thanked me for the experience and then bewilderingly stated their opinion that they preferred watching Oxford United on a sleet-driven Saturday afternoon back in England.

Sunday’s match was different however. Instead of trying to convert a slightly insane Englishman or an ostensibly sport-phobic girlfriend, Sunday evening saw my friend bring along his three-year-old son.

This was the little blond lad’s first exposure to live football and, although he was nursed through a few late nights with Chelsea on the television, this homegrown experience was hopefully the start of his life-long love affair with the game.

Watching his reactions that night warmed my cynical heart. His eyes were wide with excitement as his senses were bombarded by the spectacle before him. He did his best to join in as we cheered and jeered the events on the field.

He craned his neck toward the bright lights that encircled a stadium that must’ve seemed a hundred times larger to him than to the rest of us. He even managed a round of high fives following the Queensland’s first goal.

There were the more absurd moments too. The oversized supporter’s shirt purchased with the financial prudence that he would grow into it sometime around 2011. The undeniable fact that a three-year-old’s attention span is so sporadic that we inevitably took turns in a face pulling competition with the cherub. There was even a convoluted explanation that what the fans were not swearing at the opposition goalkeeper but were in fact yelling, “Pirate ship, yaarrrgh!”

The little fella’s awe and wonder couldn’t help but remind me of my first visit to a football ground. It wasn’t the bright lights of the A-League that served as my indoctrination but a representative match between Queensland and New South Wales at Brisbane’s spiritual home of football – Perry Park. My memories of that match one mild afternoon in 1988 stood in stark contrast to what we are now treated to some 20 years later.

While he saw a billiards-table playing surface and the assured possession play that such a surface can create, I watched a match on an uneven brown pitch that resulted in long balls and bobbling back passes. Whereas he sat in one of the world’s best stadiums; I got splinters from a wooden bench in Perry Park’s only grandstand (a misnomer as there was nothing grand about it and I am fairly sure that it was only barely standing anyway).

After the excitement of Queensland’s last minute victory over Newcastle had subsided, it dawned on me that the little tyke would never experience those frustrating pre A-League days. He will grow up with a world-class stadium and a quality product.

He will be treated to the hype of sharply marketed football and be left vulnerable to the expectations and disappointments that such hype can bring. Even the law of averages states that Queensland Roar will eventually win some silverware.

Sure, things may not all go his way. He may have to suffer the heartache of a grand final lost on penalties. He may also have to endure numerous failed attempts at making orange and maroon work together on a shirt.

Nevertheless, he will still be incredibly lucky that he never had to witness the false dawns and broken promises that football fans in Brisbane have experienced in the past.

That is to say, he will never have to visit Perry Park.