Events in Ecuador this week got me thinking about how life doesn't half deal some iffy cards to some folk. For example, say your name was Hans Beckenbauer, Majella Navratilova, Leopard Woods or Timmy Barry Murphy? True, you'd be chuffed that your parent or sibling's sporting careers had earned them god-like status but you'd never as much as catch a glimpse of the sun in your lifetime because you'd spend most of it in their shadow.

Grand if all four (any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental) made their livings in a nonsporting arena but if, respectively, they attempted to earn their keep kicking, serving, putting or pulling on balls of different dimensions life would, surely, have been grim.

Ask Nigel Clough. "When I started earning a living I was told I would never be as good as Brian Clough, never score as many goals, or do this or that like Brian Clough - and most of the time it was him telling me."

Ask Joel Cantona. Well no, don't - he's, allegedly, as unhinged as his brother. A few years back Stockport County gave him a trial but when they saw him play cries of "Uggh Argh, Joel Cantona" filled Edgeley Park.

Joel was promptly shipped back to France and was last seen playing the part of a legionary in Asterix et Cleopatre. (In fairness for the first time in his life he matched the achievements of his brother - he acted just as badly).

Ask Liam Botham. Half decent at both cricket and rugby, but even if he took 10 wickets and scored a double-century for his county or a hat-trick of tries for his club the first question chucked at him post-match was always, always, "so, what age were you Liam when Dad single-handedly won the Ashes for England in 1981?"

Ask Jordi Cruyff. Finally could take no more and changed the name on his shirt from "Cruyff" to "Jordi". Just as well, because Joanne, as Big Jack Charlton used to call Jordi's da, was probably about to demand a paternity test.

Ask Gary Nicklaus. He was on the cover of Sports Illustrated magazine when he was just 16. Then he tried eight times to qualify for the Tour and failed, eight times. "Huh, can he really be Jack's boy?" the gallery muttered. Finally made it, but still no-one's convinced he's Jack's boy because when he attempts to walk on water his shoes get wet. Ask Paul Dalglish. "You've got a lot of your dad in you," a reporter once said to him. "Yes, I've got half of my dad in me," replied Paul, "but half of my mum too. Have you seen my mum play?"

Now, that's a good point. All these lesser known sporting children haven't really a chance because the genes passed on by their sporting legend parents are hopelessly diluted by the genes of their non-sporting legend parents. Paul Dalglish might have the vision of his father but he volleys like his mother.

Of course it can work the other way. Take Laila Ali, Jackie Frazier, Maria Johansson and Freeda Foreman. Some gender studies specialists would have us believe that all four would be socially conditioned in to mimicking their Mas but all four have attempted to earn their livings punching the living daylights out of anyone who looks them in the eye, just like Muhammad, Joe, Ingemar and George.

Freeda, for example, once knocked out a Milwaukee hairdresser after one minute, 44 seconds but still the world guffawed, alleging that her punch would never match her Da's. Freeda simply asked: "Lads - d'you wanna get in the ring with me and say that to my face?"

Where were we? Ah yes, Ecuador. You might have read about national team manager Hernan Gomez being shot in the leg by a man not best pleased with his decision to omit former President Abdala Bucaram's son Dalo from the squad for the Under-20 World Cup. Dalo's Da almost condemned the shooting but watered down his rebuke a shade by pointing out that "it's soccer and people get excited and take revenge". It's Dalo I feel sorry for in all of this. Hernan's leg will, hopefully, heal in time, but will Dalo's pride?

Reminds me of the story about a young fella making his debut for a Limerick rugby club. The young fella was at the receiving end of a particularly forceful first half and largely off-the-ball display by an opponent.

HALF-TIME? His Da ran on to the pitch, grabbed the opponent by the collar and told him if he touched his young fella again he'd be taken to the Regional on 12 separate stretchers.

When the second half started the young fella was pleasantly surprised by how much space he had on the wing and how politely his opponent said "after you".

Fair play to Da, but his actions pretty much ended the young fella's rugby career because he now had the name of being "Daddy's little boy", an image not conducive to becoming a Limerick rugby legend.

Just as Dalo's hopes of making it in Ecuadorian football are all but over because a pal of his Da's shot the national coach in the leg.

So, whether you're Timmy Barry Murphy or Leopard Woods it'll always be an uneven playing field. Half of which you can't see any way because it's covered in the shadow of Jimmy Barry and Tiger.

As the song goes, "he's heavy, he's my brother".