Rifling through my drawer of nostalgia at my parents’ house I found the ticket from 31 years ago to my first match. Football fandom is often based on harking back to simpler times that are rose-tinted as being better regardless of the reality. I am fully in favour of this mindset and it needs to be passed to the next generation.

Since inexplicably making a Manchester derby in 1993 the first in-person experience of a professional match, my relationship with the beautiful game has been complicated by my profession. Attending as a fan can seem hard to justify on a weekend when I spend a day away from my young family to work at Anfield, Molineux or Turf Moor. I am not sure whether I am stereotypical of the industry; there are plenty desperate to take in as many matches as possible for work or pleasure. I, however, require a degree of separation otherwise I would be at risk of hating what I love – although the same goes for my family.

As a father of a three-year-old girl, who we shall call Pearl Unwin on these pages, I appreciate the need for a variety of entertainment. She is intrigued by the idea of my going to matches for work. I fear her telling friends at nursery that football is my work and their parents thinking I am one of the nation’s greatest fantasists, claiming to be a player despite obvious physical and technical issues.

Pearl’s nagging that she should join me for a match made me debate when and where would be optimum for her first experience. At three she is probably too young but I concluded that with smartphone cameras there would be plenty of memories to look back on. All I have is a ticket stub, an image in my mind of Niall Quinn wheeling away and never being able to dissociate Maine Road from the smell of stale urine.

Having attended the recent Manchester City v Arsenal fixture, where a supporter behind me demanded that Mikel Arteta be “shot in the head”, I felt such an atmosphere was not suitable for the most precious thing in my life. Nor did I want to expose her to a constant vaping cloud, much as she likes the scent of synthetic cherry and horseradish. If you feel the best method of enjoying yourself is shouting at 22 people on a pitch and paying a hefty price for the privilege that is your choice but for Pearl this was not an option. Instead, City Women were hosting Brighton seven days later and, with hope the weather would stay fair, a trip to Joie Stadium was arranged.

Like a proud parent, I put Pearl on my shoulders as we walked around the ground to find the correct entrance. She shouted “Cit-eh” repeatedly at anyone who would listen and many who would not. I can’t envisage her setting up her own firm any time soon but she would be open to initiating things in any poorly contrived singing section or providing company for the solitary Brighton fan chanting last Sunday.

The Women’s Super League is making strides every year, as greater investment increases professionalism and the standards throughout the sport in the UK. It could provide a livelihood for a young supporter with an interest in the sport, whether as a player, support staff member, in marketing or, God forbid, as ­a journalist.

Football was where I found enjoyment throughout my childhood. From playing Sunday league, sitting in front of Football Manager and attending Maine Road, there was little spare time not focused on sport. My teachers complained that my weekend diaries contained little else.

My experience of women’s games is they attract far more families, possibly explained by the reasonable ticket pricing. Another key difference was everyone wanted to enjoy themselves, a concept I fear is sometimes lost on supporters in the men’s game. The atmosphere is friendlier but somewhat muted, sparing Pearl the effing and, to a lesser extent, the jeffing. Pearl shouted “for God’s sake” – I blame her mother – whenever there was a foul but needed a prod to celebrate Khadija Shaw’s winner. Most importantly, she brought a sense of wonderment, not worried about suits controlling the fixture list, video assistant referees and ownership wrangling. She just wanted more pre-match flag-waving.

The nuance of tactics was lost on her and she was upset the Brighton goalkeeper, Sophie Baggaley, “has no friends” when her team are attacking, standing alone in her own half. An attempt to meet the City mascots, Moonchester and Moonbeam, led to disaster, with Pearl retreating in fear rather than having the obligatory photo. A fair response to meeting an extraterrestrial for the first time.

Sometimes – often when writing about a goalless draw or getting home from Nottingham at 2am – I forget about the joy football brings. Going with Pearl offered a reminder of why we love the game, regardless of whether she fully absorbed what was going on.

When we left she asked to play at the training ground, a sign that football is infectious. Seeing the world through your child’s eyes can often simplify matters and she knows football is supposed to be fun, not something to anger us. She is now a football fan. Maybe next time she will last more than 45 minutes, but it was extremely cold, to be fair.

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