I don’t know why, but my pregnant girlfriend was convinced we were having a boy, despite us deliberately not finding out at the 20-week scan. So when we welcomed our gorgeous baby girl into the world in September, it came as a bit of a shock. 

In the months leading up to her birth, I got quite used to the idea of having a son. There’s something romantic about lads-and-dads sharing a love of sport.

Whether it’s donning hats and scarves and heading out to football together for the first time on a nippy Saturday afternoon, hand-in-hand, stopping off for chips on the way, or a father teaching his son how to play rugby, tennis or golf.

These are traditions that have stretched back generations, and sporting weekends with my football-loving, cricket and hockey-playing father remain some of my happiest childhood memories. 

No matter how much my daughter may fight it, I will be doing my utmost to continue that; whether she likes it or not, she will be brought up surrounded by sport.

And, of course, she will follow AFC Bournemouth, like my dad, and his dad before me. I will support and guide her to be and do whoever or whatever she likes in life, but becoming a Cherries fan is, I’m afraid, non-negotiable. 

I’ve always looked forward of the day I would get to take my first child to Dean Court, or travel to watch the Cherries at random northern provincial clubs like Macclesfield, or Preston, or Wrexham, smelling the football smells, hearing the football sounds, and seeing the football sights, as Dad did with me and my younger brother Chris growing up in Shrewsbury 30 years ago.

Things are a bit different these days now Bournemouth are in the Premier League - although goodness knows how long that will last - and all-seater stadia in the top flight mean my daughter won’t be able to entertain herself during a drab 0-0 by kicking coffee cups up and down the terrace or swinging from the crash barriers like my brother and I used to.

And, yes, if we are still in the Premier League, I will have to sell a kidney to pay for a family day at the football. 

Of course, I’m sure my daughter will do or say things that embarrass me, like I did to Dad, be it asking out loud aged five why there were “so many brown people” at Aston Villa away - with Shrewsbury, of course, then not exactly being known for its diversity.

And I’ve no doubt she will do things that infuriate her father, like when I found myself in the doghouse having been kicked out of Swindon’s County Ground at half-time for being a gobby little git aged 17, as we travelled back from an open day at Exeter University. But, as any true football fan will attest, all this is worth it to carry on our proud family tradition of following the Cherries.

I’m also looking forward to teaching my daughter how to play cricket, hockey and football like Dad taught me - even though my knees are now too weak for football and in my last cricket match I turned up worse for wear having forgotten how to catch, and the ball hit me on the head, going for a four in another direction.

I have wonderful memories of watching Dad opening the batting at his club’s very-rural home ground in Shropshire, playing with my brother on the outfield, exploring caves nearby or channelling Theresa May by running through hayfields.

And when he got out, having typically spent an hour scratching around at the crease for a relatively measly run return, he would be greeted by Chris and I haring towards him screaming with joy: “Yay! Dad’s out! He can play with us now!”

While infuriated at having given away his wicket cheaply, Dad’s since told me nothing could have cheered him more than our wide-smiled greeting. Given my dodgy knees and inability to play cricket without hurting myself, maybe I’d be better teaching my daughter to play hockey instead, as Dad did when he would saw off the top of his old sticks to make miniature ones my brother and I would use to play each other while he turned out for Shrewsbury Hockey Club.

I went on to captain Middlesex Under 19s, play for the Under 21s and come agonisingly close to a place in the South East squad (one coach wanted me, the other didn’t), thanks in large part to Dad’s encouragement, and driving me to training and matches, and I still play to this day, work depending. Having been taught to play hockey by Dad, I always felt guilty that I bested his most notable achievement, an appearance or two for Cornwall’s second XI. 

But he didn’t care. He was filled with pride, happy he’d been able to pass on to his son his love of the sport, as I will be if my daughter betters anything I’ve ever achieved. And whether it’s my daughter and I shouting at an opposition right-back together on a Saturday, or forking out for horse riding lessons and driving her to gymnastics or swimming classes, I’ll do it with a big smile on my face. Because, let’s face it, when you love sport like we all do, handing down your passion to your kids is surely what weekends are all about.

Tom Latchem presents talkSPORT Extra Time every Friday and Saturday night.