Everybody remembers their first time, right? Mine was winter, early 1983. Home to West Bromwich Albion. A 1-0 defeat. Inconsequential to almost all in attendance but me. Few others will remember anything about the game at all. And in truth the details are sketchy even for me.

However, there has always been a particular image burned into the retina of my mind’s eye like the afterglow of a firework. It’s Geoff Pike, positioned as always in the middle of the Upton Park pitch, his right leg outstretched perpendicular to his body, the ball nowhere to be seen.

The second game? Well, nobody remembers that one.

This weekend I took my seven year-old son to his second game. West Ham vs Liverpool. It was the kind of match that we fans have come to know and love but only expect to see once or twice a season at best. The kind of match where everything doesn’t so much click as slide smoothly into place. The kind of match in which the men in claret and blue leave their opponents bloody and bruised. The kind of match that in which your faith in football, perhaps even life itself, is redoubtably reaffirmed.

For days afterwards I couldn’t help wondering what would be the equivalent snapshot shown on my son’s cerebral cinema screen when his life reaches its matinee further down the line.

Perhaps it will be Alex Song emerging from yet another midfield fracas with both composure and possession intact. To say West Ham wilted along with the Cameroonian’s stamina in the second half wouldn’t underplay his pivotal role in the performance. Having witnessed numerous midfielders dally and dither with the ball in recent years, it was wonderful to see the former Barcelona man propelling the side forward with every touch, as though his muscle memory was aiming for Messi’s marauding runs upfield.

Or maybe he’ll pick out Stewart Downing, banishing forever half a decade of inconsistency with as complete an attacking midfield performance as E13 has played host to for years. The through ball he supplied for Morgan Amalfitano’s definitive finish couldn’t have been improved had a small team of scientists plotted its trajectory according to the principles of trigonometry.

My son would also surely have been moved by the tenacity and courage of Cheikhou Kouyate, a West Ham warrior in the making who several of the Liverpool players kicked around the park with more conviction than they did the ball. That he won’t be back in action for at least six weeks is a blow, but such is the burgeoning belief in this squad of players that I’m confident we’ll cope.

Like most lads of that age, the boy doesn’t have much affinity for the art of defending – although even he could appreciate how Winston Reid presided over his domain with a steely totalitarianism that teetered on the cusp of cruelty. And I’m sure the sliding challenge by James Collins late on in the game that wasn’t so much a scythe as a steamroller, will stay with him for almost as long as it will haunt the dreams of its visibly disturbed victim.

No, in all likelihood my son will instinctively reach for Enner Valencia, his favourite first teamer even before that humdinger of a goal against Hull. And who can blame him?

After enduring two seasons of Cole and Carroll clattering about interspersed with the occasional calamitous cameo from Modibo Maiga and Mladen Petric, watching the energetic Ecuadorian and his striking soulmate Sakho streaking forward on the break was a tangible thrill even for me.

The tales of swashbuckling West Ham sides of old are as fantastical to my son as the fairy stories I used to read him before bed each night. Seeing his team harrying and hustling Liverpool’s bewildered back line throughout, playing not just with pace and power but also passion and pride, must have been like waking up to find the Gruffalo bawling in the back garden.

But then again, maybe I’m just projecting. My son and I were lucky enough to be enjoying the hospitality of the Premier League on Saturday and, when i asked him what he enjoyed most about this most magnificent of matches, he smiled and answered: the chocolate sponge cake with custard at half-time.

Like I said, nobody remembers their second game.

A version of this feature was originally published by West Ham Til I Die in September, 2004.