Showing posts with label Fathers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fathers. Show all posts

Thursday, 14 November 2013

A Love Not Shared


 
 
 
They are words a football loving Dad hopes he will never hear; "I don't want to go the football with Daddy anymore." In fact I didn't hear it directly. I was working away when my wife texted me to say our son had been a bit upset and uttered those words. I knew they had been coming for a while. I knew that he didn't really enjoy going to the match. The restlessness, the questions about his surroundings rather than what was happening on the pitch, the distant stare away from the on-pitch action, lost in day-dreams of happier things.
 
He had found it hard to tell anyone. He didn't want to upset me and he liked the fact that football meant that he spends time with me. I was left in mixed emotions. The fact he goes to football to make me happy made me smile and want to cry at the same time. We explored his concerns and a litany of complaints followed. Most of his concerns can be allayed and his worries and fears can all be pinpointed to a dislike of the anger and aggression he sees at football.
 
People shouting at the end when you lose
 
You shouting at the match when you lose
 
Players getting hurt by tackles (causes crowd anger and shouting)
 
The referee getting it wrong (causes crowd anger and shouting)
 
A lot of this concern arises because he is a sensitive and emotional lad and an incident at Wembley in 2011 when mindless thugs, purporting to be Stoke 'fans' attacked the stationary car my wife and son were sitting in on their way up to the Wembley car parks. Banging on the windows, shouting leering, goading, ripping window flags down and rocking the car. He was 6 and very scared, as was my wife. When they subsequently parked up they were again confronted by a beer-fuelled aggressor, invading their personal space and abusing them for not supporting his team. Rare events maybe, but once they have happened they are engrained, especially at such an age where perceptions are quickly formed and opinions are even harder to retract.
 
Some of the other questions he asked about football when trying to explain his lack of enjoyment are slightly more difficult to answer;
 
"What do the spectators get out of it?"
 
"The players get paid even when they don't win. But when they win, what do the fans get?"
 
The main problem is that he doesn't enjoy football, either watching or playing. Although he says he supports United and Bolton (he often lists the Wanderers first, more to wind me up), he doesn't really have an attachment to them, they are more "my dad's team" or "my mum's team", not "My team". It is an easy joke to make that if he is going to follow United he should get used to being bored and not enjoying it. In fact, it is hard enough watching your team struggle as an adult, never mind as when you are 6, 7 or 8, going along to out of duty as your Dad hopes beyond hope that you may develop that strength of affiliation and bond that he developed with his team when he was your age. If I have been bored numerous times in the last few seasons, how must he have felt? Cold, fed-up, wishing he was elsewhere, wishing his dad would let him play on his phone or his DS.
 
He has gone along to football training, but both times it wasn't a great experience. I first took him along to our local junior team; indoor training with their nursery side, all about learning skills with a game thrown in at the end. He wasn't the best, he was by no means the worst. He seemed to enjoy it, but preferred being in goal and showed some bravery in throwing himself at the feet of groups of goal hangers that always materialise at that age. Then, not long after he had started they said that it was time to reduce a sports hall full of 5 year olds down to a squad for Under 7's football. The axe was to be wielded at reception class age. "If you signed up, you have to be committed. You have to turn up every week regardless." Woe betide those that don't. He wasn't going to make the cut and without the opportunity to continue training and learning we went elsewhere.
 
This isn't some "Football is failing our youngsters" rant, everyone is different and has different life experiences. I know two friends who coach junior sides in Sheffield, I know the challenges they face, one blogs about the trial and tribulations of coaching here, but it has failed my boy. The junior football system didn't garner and develop the interest of young boys who might develop later as footballers. Cast aside at 6, because they aren't good enough and can no longer attend training because they are not in the squad. Teams are set up to compete and not develop, that means they don't coach and develop players who aren't in their squads. It is like Lord of the Flies, survival of the fittest.
 
At the second local club we went to there was little attempt at integrating a new face. Other, clearly talented players laughed when he couldn't do what they could do, or when he stumbled and fall when taking a shot. The braying not picked up on by the coaches or the bullish and ignorant parents who think they have sired or given birth to the next David Beckham, complete with obligatory stupid haircut. We didn't go for many weeks. I love football. I enjoy playing - as well as I can - and will happily watch a match between anyone. But that environment wasn't a comfortable one to be stood in. I watched on with a huge amount of sadness.
 
Would these things not happening have changed anything? Would he enjoy football now? Would he want to play with his friends at school? Would he find interest at Bramall Lane? Who knows, but I can't believe any of it has helped in anyway. Maybe my interest benefited from not going to watch United in the early to mid-80's when United stagnated, crowds dropped and frustration came to the fore. But I still enjoyed playing at school and after on the fields with mates or taking pot shots at my Dad in the back garden. I pored over Shoot! and Match magazines when they were delivered every week. Sunday mornings were reading the football reports and completing my League Ladders. He just hasn't got that interest.
 
What he has got are other interests and other sports he enjoys and if they develop then that might mean over 25 years of being a season ticket holder for me come to an end. What he, or my daughter, wants to do comes first and I will support them and take them to wherever they need to be, when he needs to be there, to pursue what gives him happiness. That is what being a dad is about. He says he will still come to some games with me and I am probably a different fan when he is there with me; more tolerant of his day-dreaming and off-topic chats during the game, trying to give him more idea of what is going on, letting him do his own thing when he wants to.
 
The club's marketing team have used the phrase "True Blades" are at the Lane. That might not always be the case. Sometimes, some things are more important than being at the football, however much I passionately support my team. There are times in the past where I had to be at every home game, be it the Zenith Data Systems Cup or a Testimonial. I went away to watch the Blades at 50/60 grounds. Little would deter me. Things change. Life changes. Fatherhood changes a lot. So if I am not there as often as I used to be, I am not less of a fan, I am just being more of a Dad. You never know, if I don't push it he might come back to football later in life………or maybe he won't. We shall see.
 
Up the Blades!

Wednesday, 17 July 2013

A Fatherly Hand

I recently asked #twitterblades to vote for their favourite three games of recent times. In response I received a tweet on twitlonger from Blades fan Tristan Woods-Scawen (@mrwoodpigeon) explaining his choice. His well chosen words resonated strongly with me and with his permission I have reproduced his words here. Hopefully they will strike the same chord with a wider audience. Football is a bond that unites us all and many of us will recognise elements of Tristan's story. 



You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family. It could be said the same for your football team too. Like many other boys growing up, I was “given” my team by my dad. Although I have never lived in or even near Sheffield, it was The Blades for me.

My dad went to Sheffield University in the early 1960s and having spent his formative years living down south and going to see Aldershot Town play, it was time for a step up in quality and with recent promotion to the First Division, it was BDTBL that he headed and it was an affair that was going to last the rest of his life.

I was born in December 1978, not the best year to have been born a Blade with the team being relegated to Division 3 at the end of that season. By this time my dad had moved with us to live in Essex – not really known to be a hotbed of blades fans. With work and family taking over his weekends, it was more difficult to get to any matches, but the passion remained and I remember Saturday afternoons in the 80s say with my dad watching Teletext refreshing and the occasional celebration.

We moved house again with his work and found ourselves very much in the heart of Coventry City supporters. As 1987 came and the infamous Coventry FA Cup win happened, I confided in my dad that I thought I wanted to go to Highfield Road as all my friends did and asked if he would take me.

You should know that my dad was someone who always said he didn’t really like football unless it was The Blades playing. He was never one to sit down on Sunday to watch West Brom v Blackburn or some equally “non-match” as he would describe them. He had no real interest in going to see Coventry City, but he took me along.

We watched a season together at Highfield Road, but before every game he always whispered to me at kick off that next season he would take me to see some “proper football”. I knew what this meant and whilst Sheffield was basically a foreign country to me, I was excited.

So from my first trip with my dad to BDTBL (Beautiful Down Town Bramall Lane for non-United fans) in 1990, I was hooked. My parents had split up in the early 80s and I hadn’t lived with my dad for years, but doing the weekly 3-hour round trip to Sheffield or travelling to the countless away games was our time together and I’ll never forget it.

The game that stood out for me is the FA Cup Quarter Final against Coventry. As well as having everything a game could have, we were going home to friends and family who were Sky Blues fans. It meant more to us than most I think and at the final whistle we just uncontrollably jumped and hugged. I couldn't wait to get home and rub it in with my Sky Blue mates.

If you are reading this, I’m pretty sure you know that life as a Blade is never dull. There has been some success over the last 25 years, but mostly it’s a catalogue of disappointments of missing out on promotion, relegation, selling the best players and penny-pinching chairmen.

I always read people complaining and they usually have a point, but this is why our club is the greatest club there is. We have had some amazing times at BTDTL (the greatest are usually evening matches it seems to me) and there is always something newsworthy happening at the club. Football with Sheffield United FC is the best soap opera you’ll ever see, the greatest movie plot you’ll ever hear and like the Hollywood greats, it’ll make you laugh and make you cry.

My dad was unexpectedly diagnosed with a brain tumour in 2011 and I didn’t know it at the time but we had been to our last match together. After some pretty heavy treatment, he lost much of his speech and it was tough to make conversation. But through the last few months, we talked so much about the matches we had seen and what was happening that season.

We knew he was coming to the end and so was the 2011-2012 season. Ched was gone, but I thought we could still hang on to the automatic promotion place. I thought that would be a great season for us to finish on if we could get that promotion spot.

Nothing is ever straightforward with the Blades though and of course we had to go through the pain of the play offs. I sat with my dad watching the TV as the 432 penalties (or something like that) were taken at Wembley in the final. As Simmo missed his penalty and the game was lost, he just raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

He passed away 12 days later. He was 65 years old.

Somehow, we both knew the season had summed up what it was to be a Blade and that the last match he ever saw was strangely appropriate.

We moan about this club of ours, but a football club will give us much more than we ever realise. It pulls people together; it creates great moments to share and memories to treasure forever.