I have passed through six countries now, three as a teenager, and I’ve noticed that the first few snatches of my new country’s language that I learn are not guidebook-terms. It’s not “Where is the station?” or “What is your name?”. It’ll be some sort of variation of ‘Pass!’, ‘This side!’, or other, less printable phrases. This is ‘pitch language’, and for many teen expats, it becomes the tentative first touch into the fast-flowing river of an unfamiliar language.

The football pitch, whether bone-dry dirt in New Delhi or a gently damp blanket of dew and grass in Western Europe, leaves its mark in more ways than the ever-present stains on the knee. Force me into a restaurant in my first week in Milan, and I wouldn’t know how to order a capuccio. But put me into the middle of a game, and I’d be able to protest (È rigore, eh!) or express my annoyance (Ma guarda, stupido!) comfortably. The same was true in my first allez, là-bas ! at my school in Brussels.

This strange phenomenon is not limited to new, foreign tongues. In London, I have learned a new, hitherto unexplored section of the English language: that is, Premier League English. To warn of an approaching opposition player: ‘Man on!’. To berate a clumsy teammate: ‘Careful, you mug!’. And the classic response to a referee’s blunder: ‘Nah, mate, go to Specsavers’.

Either way, I found that grasping the language of the football pitch opened up the world beyond it. Sport’s always a bonding experience; in Europe, though, football is a religion. Knowing the language of a country’s football is knowing the heartbeat of the country. This is the importance of ‘pitch language’ in the life of the teen expat.