In the divide between the oval ball and the round ball, I’ve always been on the side of the former. There was a time, in my teens, when I and my school friends would catch an early train from Stirling to Edinburgh on international days, trek out to Murrayfield with our packed lunches and be first at the turnstiles for ten-shilling places on the terracing. From then until the end of my student days, I never missed a match there.

Then I married a man whose prowess and interest in team sports was almost nil. Although we still watch Scotland at rugby, it’s from the comfort of a sofa. But I would say that both of us were, if anything, hostile to football itself, reminding ourselves of the old Roman adage about giving the masses bread and circuses to keep them docile.

The only time football made an appearance when my children were young was when my daughter wanted to play it. I was full of equal-opportunities enthusiasm at the time and encouraged her to fight her way into the village team. But it didn’t last – not that she encountered prejudice, she just wasn’t terribly good at it.

So it was something of a surprise to us that our two sons became passionate Rangers supporters. The younger one, it is true, dilutes his interest with rugby, golf and other sports, but for the elder, it’s Rangers, Rangers, all the way. We have groaned and mocked him, and at one time became seriously concerned. This was because the sectarianism got to him, and the child that we had raised in an atmosphere of liberal values began uttering anti-Catholic sentiments. That seems to have passed.

Anyway, at the beginning of this week I was in London and managed to snatch lunch with my younger son. As we sat at a pavement cafe, I asked if he was meeting up with his older brother in Manchester.

Not only were they meeting, he had managed to get them tickets. Possibly relaxed by the sun and the sparkling water, he told me what they had cost. I will not repeat it, save to say that it is around the same price that their sister has just paid for a second-hand horse box.

I was appalled, but also in some way impressed. And Wednesday night being unoccupied, I decided to see if I could get a clue as to what drives them and all the others for whom football brings out such passionate loyalty.

I must say I was totally entranced. It took me a bit of time to get into it – every time the ball went into touch I was looking for a lineout. But although the offside intricacies were beyond me, the general principles were easy to follow.

And I realised how inappropriate my scorn was. It is indeed a beautiful game. It has such delicacy and grace. I had not realised before that there are times when there is total stillness on the field. It ebbs and flows in a constant, unpredictable tide.