It was tough to watch England but my dad helped me deal with my emotions

You might know that my dad, Keith Nobbs, was a professional footballer himself, playing over 300 times for Hartlepool. A bad injury to his ankle meant he retired when I was born, but I have heard stories about how he was. He was a defender and a bit of a nutter, by the sounds of things. He broke his jaw once in a game. Another time he had a broken collarbone. He just grabbed his shirt and played on for another 45 minutes.

On Friday, I rang my dad just to speak with him. He got through those tough times when he was injured or frustrated on the training field, wanting to come back quicker, so as soon as I called him, I knew I was not going to get frustrated. He just gets what I am going through.

I think he could tell that I was... I do not know. I think he knew how hard it was going to be watching England v Scotland on my own – I am going out to cover Friday’s match against Argentina for the BBC, and when I thought about balancing rehab with the travel to come later, it felt best to stay in England.

Without speaking about it, we have that mutual understanding. We both knew we wanted to see each other. He went: “Right – I’m going to come down and watch the game with you.” He got the train down the night before, stayed and watched the game, then got the train back later that night.

It was tough, and I was glad I had a good voice to listen to during the game. He understood the mixed emotions I felt. On one hand, I want the girls to go on and win the World Cup and change the women’s game for the better. I have no doubt in my mind that they will do that and show how professional they are. But I just kept thinking: “I reckon I could be on that pitch right now. I reckon I could handle it.”

Deep down, I know it was not even an option – we were both saying those things knowing it was not up for debate. You just cannot think like that, and rushing this kind of injury could have jeopardised my long-term career. But when you are watching, you naturally want to walk out with the team. I just hope that I have an Olympics to look forward to and a Euros after that. But it was not easy, and I am glad my dad was there because he just kept talking and kept me amused.

When he is watching the game, he is quick to want to make improvements: “She should be turning out there.” Little things like that. He has just got a football brain. I do tell him to be quiet sometimes because he does not stop, but that is just the way he is.

My dad has been the biggest influence on my career. Like Phil Neville, he grew up in a strict football environment with standards and he loves to constantly talk about football. That made me very competitive. I remember we used to go to my nan’s back garden with a little size three football. He would stick spades across the middle of the grass, then put a hosepipe through the top of the handles. We used to play head tennis for three, four hours on a night-time, my nan sitting and watching us on her deckchair.

When I was a kid, he ran soccer schools during the summer holidays. I was the only girl out of 50 kids, and he would run out and bring me fish and chips at lunchtime. I always remember the coaches had awards for ability and attitude, and for about four years in a row, the other coach kept saying: “I need to give this to Jordan.” My dad would go: “You can’t! She’s my daughter. It will look terrible!”

Then I remember joining a girls’ team and he finally let the coach give me Best Ability. It was one of the first trophies I had won as a 12-year-old. My face lit up – I used to just play with boys and they would win everything. I never knew my dad was telling the other coaches I was not allowed to win!

I always wanted to be a professional footballer and I never thought I could not be – I loved it and I was not going to stop playing. My dad was always pushing me to those next milestones: an academy, playing 11-a-side, those little routes as a youngster to help you develop.

Now, he is there every single game to give me advice. He will run down the stairs to catch me before I go through the tunnel: “Keep having shots. Make sure you turn out quicker.” He is the first phone call I make after a game. He will come down to Arsenal to watch me play, get the train home, then ring me about three hours later to say, “I’ve just watched the match back.” He has got a bit of an addiction actually – I probably need to tell him to back off the football.