I’ve found another way of ruining sport for myself. I thought I’d explored every means of turning the stress dial up to 11, but now I’ve chanced on a new method. I must need the anxiety to feel alive.

I go back a long way with this kind of thing. I’ve never been able to watch a sporting contest without picking a team or a person to root for. It started when I was about five. I idolised my grandad and because he wanted West Brom to win, I wanted it too. This kind of thing is habit-forming, and perhaps not entirely healthy. I thought I’d grow out of it, but it’s getting worse. And it has gone far beyond my own football team.

When I was a kid, it was about looking up to adults in awe. Back then they were old enough to be my parents. I so wanted the best for them. Now the athletes are young enough to be my children or even grandchildren, and it’s even worse – because I feel protective towards them. I was at Wimbledon this week and witnessed the return of the great Serena Williams, which was quite something. But as soon as I saw her opponent, pale and slight with a fearful air about her, I knew I was in trouble.

I’d never heard of Maya Joint until she walked out on court, but as soon as I read that she had lost 15 of her last 18 matches, I wanted her to win more than anything else in the world. When she took the first set, I went home because I couldn’t bear to see her throw the lead away,........

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