I used to switch off when sport came on the television over Christmas. But in the past two weeks I have voluntarily watched the world cycling championships, Boxing Day racing and National Basketball Association games — much of it from the gym.

I never imagined myself as the kind of person who would enjoy watching people whizz around tracks or pump fists in the air. At primary school, my best friend Antonia and I were always the last to be picked for teams. We could barely do forward rolls, let alone catch a netball. We did not mind being uncoordinated: we fancied ourselves as artistic. Antonia was a genuinely talented painter whose pictures were always exhibited at the end of term. My parents were writers who thought that “exercise” was leaving the car in a lay by and strolling across a field to look at some ancient monument.

If I had not had three sons, I might have missed out on a whole other world. But this year, I’ve realised, they have transformed my attitude to sport. I used to say “it’s only a game” until I realised that every contest is a battle for glory, even to a small person clutching a ball in the garden. We all need the chance to be the hero of our own story.