The trouble with being sanctimonious...

The scene is youth group on Wednesday night.
We've just begun the 'CY' (Christianity Explored for youth) series and the first question is:
"If you could ask God one question, and you knew it would be answered, what would it be?"
Well, everyone has their own booklet, so we started with all the young people writing their 'question for God' in their booklets.  There are a couple of tough things we're dealing with at church at the moment, and I was sat there wondering what everyone was going to be writing.  The lad next to me kept glancing my way and I started imagining what he was in the middle of writing.  I figured it was something that he wasn't quite sure of, and I couldn't work out whether I'd need to go for the reassuring, hand-on-the-shoulder-whilst-nodding-and-furrowing-ones-brow approach, probably topping it off with a bit of a deep sigh.  I also wasn't sure whether he was wanting me to look over and read it, or whether he was trying to keep it to himself.  (I thought a lot in the seconds we had!)  I decided that, despite his continued glances my way, I'd remain eyes-front and wait to do the helpful-youth-leader-thing when he actually read out his answer (if, indeed, he plucked up the courage to vocalise what was, I was by now sure, a deep and probably painfully searching question).
We went around the circle, and others asked questions along the lines of, 'why are we here?', and other such classics.  And we came to the lad next to me.  "What's your question then?" the leader asked him.  I'd still managed to resist the temptation to read over his shoulder (it was going to make my response so much more real and heartfelt).  I braced myself - poised to react.  He spoke - the question he'd ask God in full certainty that he'd receive an answer:
"God, what's your favourite football team?"