I’ve supported Manchester United for as long as I can remember. From the treble season to the post-Fergie wilderness, I’ve seen it all—on TV, in the stands, and through the kind of emotional rollercoaster that only football can deliver. But it wasn’t until I became a dad that I realised just how much the game—my club, in particular—could be something more than a personal obsession. It could be a way to connect with my kids.
And weirdly enough, it started with a stadium tour.
I’ll be honest, I never used to think much of stadium tours. They always felt a bit touristy. Something for school trips or for people ticking off bucket lists. I didn’t need to see the changing room to know what United meant to me. I already had the memories, the heartbreaks, the highlight reels etched into my brain.
But once I had kids—and they started asking questions about the game, the team, the “who’s that, Dad?” moments during matches—I started to realise that they were looking for a way in. Not just into football, but into my world. And that’s when I booked the Old Trafford tour.
Stepping Into Something Bigger
From the moment we walked up Sir Matt Busby Way, there was a buzz. Not just from them—though they were bouncing—but from me too. I’ve been to Old Trafford plenty of times. I’ve stood in the Stretford End, I’ve cursed from my seat in the East Stand, and I’ve walked away in both triumph and despair. But seeing it through their eyes? That was different.
Kids don’t care about tactics or transfer sagas. They care about moments. Walking through the tunnel. Sitting in the dugout where Fergie once barked his orders. Standing pitchside, looking up at 70,000 empty seats and trying to imagine the roar of a crowd. They took it all in like it was magic.
And the best part? For once, I was the expert.
“Dad, You Know Everything About United!”
If you’ve got kids, you’ll know that your authority fades with time. When they’re small, you’re the oracle. Then school, YouTube, and their mates start replacing your wisdom with whatever’s trending. But on that tour, in that stadium, I was back.
The guide was great—knew his stuff, told the right stories—but I was throwing in my own anecdotes. I pointed out where Rooney scored that overhead kick against Man City in 2011. I explained how Keane dominated midfield like a man possessed. I even nailed a question about the Munich clock, which earned me a proper impressed look from my eldest.
That look—the one that says “My dad’s actually cool at this”—was worth the ticket price alone.
More Than Just a Tour
There was something different about the way we interacted that day. Normally, when we talk football at home, it’s all half-listening. Me glancing at my phone, them flipping between games and TikTok. But inside Old Trafford, with no distractions, we were fully switched on. We had shared focus, shared stories, shared silence even—just soaking it all in together.
And it wasn’t just about United. It was about being there. The ritual of the visit. The feeling of walking sacred ground. You don’t have to be religious to know what a place like that means. When we sat in the home dressing room, they asked whose spot it was. I said, “That’s Bruno’s now.” And then we had this whole chat about who else might’ve sat there, who might sit there next, what it takes to make it.
It became a conversation about effort, pride, legacy—all the things we try and teach our kids, but which often go in one ear and out the other. Here, it landed.
The Tour Was Just the Start
Since then, we’ve done a couple more. We took a trip to Anfield while visiting family—neutral ground, I told them (I lied), though I kept my United shirt under wraps. We toured the Etihad too, just to compare (and I begrudgingly have to admit it was pretty good). It’s become a bit of a thing for us now. Every time we travel, we check: is there a ground nearby? Can we fit in a tour?
They’ve started collecting scarves. I’ve started collecting memories.
And I’ve noticed something else too. When we watch United now, they’re into it. Not just because it’s on, or because I’m shouting at the telly, but because they’ve been inside that place. They’ve stood where Amad stands. They’ve seen the shirts, the trophies, the echoes of greatness. It’s personal now.
Why It Works
I think football gives dads and kids a shortcut to something deeper. You don’t always have to sit down and have big, heartfelt chats to stay connected. Sometimes it’s enough to walk a tunnel together. To point out your favourite seat in the stands. To sit in the Media room and pretend to be a reporter asking questions to the manager, or argue over who gets to sit in Ronaldo’s old spot in the changing room.
Stadium tours won’t fix every father–child disconnect. But they give you something simple, solid, and shared. No screens. No stress. Just a walk through the place where legends were made, side by side.
And maybe, years from now, when they take their own kids to Old Trafford—or wherever football takes them—they’ll remember that day. That tour. That feeling. And maybe they’ll remember me, not just as the guy who forced them to wear red, but as the bloke who showed them why it matters.
Football’s changed a lot over the years. Ticket prices, owners, VAR—it’s all got a bit messy. But there’s still something pure in seeing your club up close, in sharing that pride with your kids, and in watching them fall for the same game that’s meant everything to you.
So if you’re a dad—and especially if you’ve got little ones who are just starting to show an interest—book the tour. Walk the halls. Tell the stories. Be the expert, if only for an hour.
Because trust me: they’ll remember it.
And so will you.