To be a boy .... or not?

It was really a pleasant autumn afternoon here in São Paulo today, and as I had already been out for my walk this morning, I decided to go down into the grounds of the condominium. In this light with its soft golden hue, maybe I might write something, a poem or some notes for corrections on a story I am writing.

The best place to catch the sunshine was next to the area that is used for tennis, ball games, or other activities. A group of boys chased footballs across the synthetic court, their bare heels slapping lightly against the surface with that effortless Brazilian ease, as if shoes were optional for joy. Something about watching them stirred more than nostalgia.

They soon got down to a more serious side and started a four a side game. As usual with boys playing football, there was laughter, shouts of frustration as there’s always someone who will not pass the ball and wants to be the next ‘Ronaldo fenomenal,’ but at least they were enjoying themselves.

One boy took a shot at goal, and the ball swerved in the air and into the top corner. Then a sharp thud of ball against the fence jolted something loose in me. Suddenly I was back on the grass fields of Edinburgh, and I could see and smell the grass of the playing fields where, as a boy, I had that kick-about. Strangely, we were all in awe of Brazilian footballers back then. They were such a special team in the 70s.

The difference was that often we would have twenty a side and jumpers or jackets for goalposts. Sometimes it was also pretty muddy because of our weather back home. Having watched the Brazilian team swerving the ball, just like that kid had moments ago, had us all trying to do the same. Of course, with varying degrees of success or failure.

Oh, to be a boy again … or not? Suddenly, that question brought up so many things about how different things are nowadays, things I hadn’t expected to feel on a quiet afternoon in São Paulo.

These days, for so many boys, playing together means a headset and a glowing screen. The parks that once rang with shouts, arguments over whose turn it was, and the thud of a ball hitting a tree now feel strangely hollow. You still see the odd kid on a bike, or a pair of brothers kicking a ball half-heartedly, but the wide green spaces that used to be crowded with games feel more like dog‑walking routes than battlegrounds of childhood imagination. Maybe that’s one reason it’s become easier for councils to let those green spaces slip away. Fewer voices to miss them.

And parents hover more now. You can see it in the way they call out ‘careful!’ before a child has even climbed the first branch of a tree, or the way a bit of mud on a sleeve feels like a minor crisis. But beneath that fussing is something heavier, a fear we didn’t seem to carry back then. The world feels sharper at the edges. Talk of violence, the possibility of another war, the cost of living squeezing families… it’s no wonder adults look at childhood through a lens of danger rather than freedom.

Still, I suppose our parents probably said the same sort of things when we were young. Every generation thinks the world has suddenly become more complicated. Maybe when you’re born into a time, you accept it in a way the adults around you never quite can.

‘Goooooooooooolllllllllll!’ The long, musical Brazilian celebration snaps me out of my thoughts. I look up to see the boys piling onto the scorer in a tangle of arms and laughter. And yes, I’d love to be a boy again, even if only for a moment.