IT is a rite of passage in any boy’s life. Albert has joined a football team. He has had his name down on the waiting list for about six months, ever since he decided that his ambition in life is to play for Manchester United.

He even insisted, last month, that I put a picture of his hero, Wayne Rooney, on his birthday party invitations.

He had wanted me to ring the star striker to see if he would come and do a training session at his footie birthday party for him but, after long and tense negotiations, settled for his picture on the invitation instead.

A few days before the party, Rooney’s picture, along with stories of his dalliances with prostitutes, was all over the tabloids too.

Thankfully, none of our seven and eight-year-old guests seemed to be aware that the player on the front of the invitation, with a speech bubble asking them to “Come to Albert’s footie party” , was not the sort of boy their mummies might want them to invite back for tea.

Albert wore his new Manchester United football strip on the day. The £65 price tag, which probably isn’t enough to keep Rooney’s wife Colleen in false eyelashes for an afternoon, seemed exorbitant to me.

But it was Albert’s birthday and it was all he wanted.

Finding out he had got a place on his local village team just a week after he turned eight capped it all.

When we turned up for his first training session, one of the coaches explained that the team had only been created the year before. They believed in everyone getting a game, no matter what their ability, as it was the only way they would learn.

Above all, he said, he wanted them to enjoy it. This had meant that, for the first six months, they lost all their games, some by as many as 15 goals. But lately, they had started to improve and had drawn a few too.

By the time Albert walked onto the pitch for his first game two weeks ago, wearing his new yellow and black stripy team strip, he was glowing with pride.

The coaches were giving them gentle encouragement: “When they get the ball right in front of your goal, that is not good,” they advised.

As the game progressed, some of them seemed nervous about going in for a tackle, others ran away from the ball: “There’s no need to be scared of the ball. If you don’t know what to do, just run towards the other player and sometimes that’s enough to put them off,” they were told.

They did manage to score two goals. True, the other team had six at that point, and then we stopped counting. But this was grassroots football at its best.

When they came off, I asked Albert if he had enjoyed the game. “It was... amazing,” he beamed.

He seems to be unaware of Rooney’s latest unsavoury dealings.

I haven’t told him how his hero dissed his club and his team mates last week. I haven’t told him how he is emerging as a mercenary player whose only loyalty appears to be to his bank balance.

To Albert, football is a game you play for pleasure. And there is little that can beat the sheer joy of playing with his mates in his local team.

That’s something Rooney, on his new £200,000 a week contract, would do well to remember.

Albert’s expensive Manchester United shirt with the lucrative Aon logo is starting to look increasingly grubby, and not just when it needs a wash. I much prefer his yellow and black village team strip. At least he can wear it with pride.

SOME of the judges on the XFactor were thrilled by the performance of a Scouse singer last week: “Liverpool has got itself a pop star. This is just what Liverpool needs,” they said. Albert was confused. “I don’t understand.

What do they mean?” he asked me.

“You know what a pop star is,” I said. “It’s a successful recording artist, someone who makes hit records.” He still didn’t get it. “But why are they saying Liverpool has got a pop star?” He wasn’t satisfied by any of my explanations. And then it dawned on me. “Don’t you realise, Liverpool is a city as well as a football club?” I think it’s time we broadened his horizons.