I remember being interested in Dutch football from a young age. The first football match I can remember watching was the Italia 1990 World Cup match between England and the Netherlands – although saying I remember ‘watching’ it is a little inaccurate. To be honest, until I looked up the score, while writing this, I could not remember who had won (actually it was a draw) or who had played for either team. But the match has stuck in my mind, partly because of the vibrant orange shirts of the Dutch team, which, I suppose, for a six- year- old, were particularly attractive and eye- catching. It certainly was not for the memory of a stunning English performance; as much as I like football, goalless draws do not often remain with me long, and I must admit that I have never really supported England in sporting matters – I always chose to be one of those awkward (and rightly derided!) people who picks teams based on what they are like, rather than where they are from. No, I remember this game because of where I watched it – the emergency room of High Wycombe hospital while awaiting stitches for a rather large gash on my leg. The gash itself had been obtained while running around the boundary of my local cricket club, no doubt trying to emulate some of the more scintillating elements from the World Cup. This mix of excitement and injury may in part explain my relationship with sport – it is something I love, but I am not always sure I like it, or whether it is good for me. These sentiments will permeate these histories.But my interest in Dutch football is not purely based on orange shirts or memories of a hospital waiting room. Being a sporting child, liv-ing in Britain in the early 1990s, I had the good fortune of being able to watch Football Italia on Channel 4 every Sunday afternoon after return-ing from playing rugby.