THE first men to break my heart were Don Revie's Leeds United dream team.

They made me weep tears of joy when they won the FA Cup in 1972, and provoked wracking sobs of despair when they lost it the very next year to Second Division Sunderland.

They taught me a lot about pain, did Leeds United, starting with the baffled sting of disappointment when Dad unaccountably refused to wear the scarf I'd made for him in lemon, white and pale-blue wool, remnants from the matinée sets my Mum was knitting for her friends' babies at the time.

He said he liked my scarf, but he left it firmly in the boot of the car when he took me to an away match at Everton. I thought it was because he regarded the colours as effeminate. I didn't realise it could be because we were standing at the home end. I was too short to notice the sea of blue and white above my head and, indeed, far too short to see what was happening on the pitch.

I had no idea that when I shouted: "Come on, Leeds!" they would score in the very next instant. And I was completely unprepared for the fact that a grown man would kick a child's backside in anger until, a single second after the goal, I felt a sudden pain on the posterior.

Leeds United brought me joy again when I won a colouring competition in the local paper. I was so thrilled to win Johnny Giles's number ten sock-tags and a ball signed by the entire team that I didn't even mind the paper referring to me as Master Francoin Clee'. I was, however, slightly disappointed that I hadn't won Peter Lorimer's number seven shirt.

Nevertheless, I couldn't wait to show off, and despite my Dad's protests I played kick-about in the street until I had destroyed the football that I'd won. It was only years afterwards that the folly of my decision came home to me, with the knowledge that I would rue it until my dying day.

Towards the end of the 70s, I decided the rollercoaster of football fandom was too much for me, and that in any case tennis players tended to be better-looking. But old habits die hard, and over the years, as Leeds United suffered death by a thousand cuts, I continued to feel the pain I'd endured as a child.

I believe a scientific study has shown that when a football team suffers a significant defeat, the impact on its fans can be physically measured. Apparently, the blood of heartbroken male supporters shows a sharp dip in testosterone for almost a week afterwards.

I wouldn't know much about that, but when Leeds United lost to Doncaster Rovers in the League One play-offs at the weekend, my heart still felt that familiar sinking feeling. My old team is struggling through a Greek tragedy so black as to be bordering on farce. At times like these, it seems the only decent thing to do is to avert your gaze.

That feeling reminded me why, these days, I channel my enthusiasms into the appreciation of musicians. When you go to see a band you've followed for a while, you can be part of a passionate crowd of fans, just as you can at a football match. You're just a damned sight less likely to get your heart smashed to smithereens.