Is the run-in to be enjoyed? Just endured? Or can the Class of 2015 calm the nerves of the Yellow Army?

Being a parent, I’ve come to realise, is not so much about trying to make your children behave like you as trying to make them not behave like you.

So while I’ve put a lot of effort into indoctri… I mean, encouraging our two to follow the yellow and green path (and rather successfully if I say so myself), I’ve tried even harder to steer them away from particular ways in which I’ve thought and acted over the years.

For example, I’ve urged them not to dismiss people or activities out of hand before giving them a fair chance.

Not to torment themselves by dwelling on past mistakes when they should remember all the positive things and move on.

And not to smack the bottom of any woman bending over in the street to swap heavy shopping bags from one hand to the other.  (Though to be fair to myself, that happened just the once – in St Stephen’s, as I recall – and I was only four at the time.)

But perhaps the biggest thing I want to impress on them – certainly in a sporting context – is that they should try to relish big occasions rather than fear them.

I haven’t had much success with this, though.  Neither apple has fallen far from the old, gnarled tree and they’re clearly just as prone to anxiety as I am.

Our son’s under-8 football team recently had a cup semi-final, and four or five days beforehand he admitted that he was really worried about it.

‘What if we lose?  What if I make a mistake that costs us the game?  What if it goes to penalties and I miss?’

I did my best to reassure him, reminding him that football at his level should be about enjoyment and learning rather than results, that his team had already done brilliantly to reach the semis and that it wouldn’t be the end of the world even if he did let me down, let his team-mates down and let himself down.

(No, I didn’t really say that last bit.)

On the day of the game, he was a bag of nerves – and his older sister was no better.  She couldn’t watch the last ten minutes of the match as she was so fearful.

By that stage, I wasn’t so worried since the team was 7-3 up – and Harry had scored a belting goal to secure a weekend free from self-recrimination as well as a place in the final.

Now, of course, he’s embarked on a month-long period of gradually rising anxiety leading up to the big game next month.  I’ve told him that he should look forward to it and savour it – especially as I never made it to any sort of final in my playing career and he’s done it in his first season.

These are the games you hope to play in, so they should be embraced.

My words don’t seem to be working, though.  And it’s hardly surprising.  I’d be exactly the same in his situation, because I’m exactly the same in my situation.

I recently gave up playing in the Dads’ Friday evening 7-a-side league at Harry’s school (the fifth time I’ve retired from football, I think, and definitely the last) because I found that I was starting to worry about it from the Monday.  And while I kept telling myself ‘it’s meant to be fun, it’s meant to be fun’, that mantra had morphed into a repeated muttering of ‘don’t be s***, don’t be s***’ by kick-off.

Nor do I fare any better as a fan.

Last Saturday was a case in point.  Forced (by Harry’s awkwardly-timed away game in the depths of darkest Surrey) to follow the Forest game at home via the unsatisfactory multi-platform experience of Canaries Wall, Final Score and the radio commentary, I spent the fifteen minutes after the Forest goal looking pained and clutching my head, only realising I was doing so when our daughter asked if I was OK.

(It’s remarkable how we invest so much in football, emotionally and financially, and then spend so much time wishing games to be over.)

And of course things are only going to get more stressful towards the end of the season – and beyond it, if we end up in the dreaded play-offs.

I say ‘dreaded’ because the most nervous I’ve ever been at a football match was at Molineux for the play-off semi-final away leg in 2002.  I shook throughout – and even the relief at the final whistle was tempered by the worry of how I was going to get back safely to the bright yellow car I had then.

This is clearly not a healthy or enjoyable state of affairs, so I’ve resolved to adopt a different attitude to the squeaky end of this season.  I’m going to make a concerted effort to welcome the drama, the excitement and the tension – or at least not to be consumed by the jitters.

After all, we’re not fighting relegation.  We’re in a much better position than we anticipated two or three months ago.  We’re playing well.  And there are not one, but three promotion spots there to be won.

Look, I don’t know whether I’ll have any more joy in carrying off this new approach than in easing our son’s apprehensions.  But I’m going to give it a go.

I shall remain calm during the Championship run-in.

I shall remain calm during the Championship run-in.

I shall remain calm during the Championship run-in.

Can’t promise the same for the Under-8s cup final, mind.