But there's always someone who finds it rewarding. In my experience, this person is (a) a mouthy great lummox who can jump off the science block without flinching and carries an air rifle with him at all times; or (b) an oppressed loner with an interest in military history, playing the saxophone and keeping reptiles as pets. Neither of them are run of the mill.
A good keeper will snort when you show the bruises beneath your shinpads. He (or she I better say now we're all taking lasses' football seriously) will not have a clue how to dress himself. He will think he knows all about football when he knows more about nuclear fission (witness Schmeichel's punditry or Bryan Gunn's management). He will have Saturday's dirt under his fingernails come Wednesday night. And apart from the last bit, he wouldn't be me.
For which all of us outfield fancy dans are eternally grateful. And for those of us that choose not to get kneed in the head by every Cockney rhymer's favourite player Stephen Hunt, or indulge in over ambitious step-overs when confronted by a pacy forward, let me say here and now we have nothing but sympathy. Coupled with a complete lack of comprehension.
In the case of Mr Federici, I'm all heart. After a very decent performance the ball slid out between his legs like a fourteenth child. It barely touched the sides. To say I felt sick for the lad is an understatement, like suggesting the thoughts of Katie Hopkins are somewhat distasteful. (It's a long time since capital punishment was - rightly - eliminated from this country but there's always the exception that proves the rule and crucifixion's too good for her. She is a shadow on the lung of our body politic).
Federici left the field in tears having left enough of them out there to have watered Wembley for a lifetime. (Although not quite as much as Chelsea use before playing a slick passing team at Stamford Bridge). I don't blame him. If it was me I'd have been a huddled wreck cowering in my own net for the rest of the season.
I hope he's got to sleep by now, but somehow I doubt it.
Those of us watching the frenzy at the top of the Championship can tell you all about sleepless nights mind you. 45 minutes into Saturday's fixtures Boro were top after our gritty win at Carrow Road. Another half later and we're 3rd again. It's torture, I tell you. Then again I could be a goalkeeper. Or a Newcastle fan.
It seems Ashley's pigeons are coming home to roost. Anyone who thinks Fat Mike gives a shit about anyone but himself has never bought a pair of jiggly bottoms from Sports Direct. Newcastle are those joggy bottoms: misshapen, uncared for and lacking any style whatsoever. John Carver steers the good ship Gallowgate like he's got his braces caught in the steering wheel. It's a terrible terrible joke and even I can't laugh any more.
There's a bit at the end of Animal Farm where the pigs are eating with the humans and you can't tell them apart. That's Mike Ashley, that is. We've known for decades that English football clubs are rich men's playthings but at least Abramovich looks after his toys - for now. Ashley shoves his in a box, hides it in the attic and occasionally brings it down to give it a bit of a kicking.
It's a bit like seeing the woman you love shacking up with a fella who doesn't even remember why he moved in in the first place. Ashley's the Katie Hopkins of Football ownership and he needs to be forcibly moved on. It'll take one mighty forklift but the sooner he's south of Watford Gap (that gap being 1 point currently - see Championship table) the better for all of us.