I didn’t share his love of the beautiful game, it’s rules, language and rituals, but every week together we would watch tiny blue Everton FC figures scuttle across a pitch. In return, my father would trap insects for me to study. Weekend mornings became synonymous with a series of trades, Cahill; Ferguson; Gascoigne, Woodlouse; Beetle; Lacewing.

I would wait for him to bring back infinitely intricate creatures cupped in his hands; the glass on top would protect my fingers from jaws and stings, and the insect from my unknowing childish grip. I was taught fragility and trust not through the act of entrapment, but through the unexpected quiet of my father, suddenly distanced from the pace of his life soundtracked by The Incredible Shrinking Dickies, Ramones and roar of a televised crowd. As my interests grew, I stopped watching football to find new local animal and plant species, I learned to categorise and name them.

Now and again, my phone lights up, my father questioning the identity of an Angle Shades Moth or Stag’s Horn Sumac. I could name perhaps two current Everton players.