Football? ‘More serious than life or
death’? Don’t be soft. But it still has its place in life’s bigger picture.
I can vouch for this.
Several years ago, I was at home recovering from an operation. Cancer was still on the
cards and I was awaiting the biopsy results. Some say this sort of thing helps you sort
out your priorities. Well, my priority just then was the season’s opener at Rochdale.
I indulged myself. I listened to immoderate chunks of the game via Clubcall. Now, what big
question was I asking myself in August 1989, that a Spotland phone-in should be its
answer? But I’m not the only freak at home. It was a death in the family which
brought our daughter to football. It happened like this.
In the autumn of 1990, Frank Casper finally managed to kick-start his terminal
underachievers. They began to suggest that promotion was not just an idle hope. But on the
very same day that Maidstone lost at Turf Moor, my mother in law was told her time was up.
Naturally, she wanted to remain at home for as long as possible. So, of course, the family
rallied round. Our part in the care rota came at the weekend. This meant a weekly drive to
Leeds.
When someone is dying, it’s easy to hide in a flurry of inessential tasks. Just to
cope with your helplessness. I think that Liz and I both did this. Unfortunately, this
left Lydia very much on her own. Only her 'Sweet Valley High' books offered
distraction. In that hushed household, everything flowed around her.
One Saturday morning in late January, she asked if I would take her to a game. Before
then, she had not showed even the remotest interest. She told me that she had just
experienced her first football dream. She asked whether there was a club called
Motherwell. I suppose puns are the stuff that dreams are made of. Since pain had brought
her to football, I reckoned that she was ready to become a Claret.
Liz agreed, if for different reasons. She’d become concerned that we were
overlooking Lydia. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Taking someone to a game as an act of
mercy? That can’t be right?
Anyway, on Saturday, 26th January we set for Burnley. In the Gulf,
Saddam’s Scud missiles had again failed to do their stuff. The Allies still stood
together. In Yorkshire, it was one of those crisp days. You know the sort, when everything
is so clear and certain. Lydia was grasping for that. "Granny is going to get well,
isn’t she?" she asked. Thoughtlessly, I hadn’t prepared for this. Quite
often, we mistake silence for understanding. I replied hesitantly. I knew I couldn’t
lie. I’m crap at lying anyway. But surely there was a better way of saying what I had
to say. It’s one of those times when super parent holds forth in your brain, telling
you, of course, there’s a way, if you’re good enough to find it. Well, buggered
if I could. I wasn’t even sure whether I should stop the car. I didn’t, probably
more for my benefit. She wasn’t going to be deflected by any ambiguity. She wanted to
know and wanted me to tell her. After I told her she was silent. Outside the car, the
passing fields were still firmly clasped by frost. It’s tempting to try and fill
these gaps, but there’s no balm. Just pointless words,
She was first to talk. "Are Burnley any good?" she asked. OK, maybe I’m
not so crap at lying. But I didn’t want to be too pressed, so I dived into some
garbled tale about the Pendle witches. I didn’t need to tell her that we were there.
As we came down from the moors, she picked Burnley out, remarking, "It looks kind of
homely, doesn’t it." Nature 1, nurture 0, I reckoned.
Inside the ground, they were playing the Milltown Brothers. The Club had little else.
Most birthday requests were palmed off with the same song, ‘Which Way Should I
Jump’. This was how it became our song. We still play it, usually on the rare Burnley
trips that we now manage together.
I was desperately hoping that Burnley wouldn’t foul up. Lydia was still a bit
young to realise how much of a jerk her dad was. I had hoped for a few more years’
grace.
Surprisingly, the game was a belter. It was a fierce contest, alright. Stockport were
typically Stockport; hard, up for it and together. They started the better side and took
an early lead from a poor clearance. he ball sat up nicely for their centre half. He
didn’t mess about, thumping it past Chris Pearce. I was beginning to feel a bit
sheepish. Having to deal with all those questions. "Are Burnley winning?"
"Why aren’t they winning?" "When will they start winning?" Then,
out of the blue, John Deary slipped behind the Hatters’ defence to stab in the
equaliser. Of course, Lydia was looking away at the time, so I had to explain.
Up until then, I’d been fairly restrained. Deary’s equaliser had only
prompted polite applause. However, when ‘Rocket’ Ron Futcher fired in a
blistering volley, that was quite different. I started leaping around the terraces with
loose change cascading from my pockets. Anybody seen a fruit machine impressionist? But
Lydia remained unmoved, before enquiring uncertainly, "Have Burnley scored a
goal?"
The first half was chilly enough but the second was agonisingly cold. Ice began to form
on the pitch, as the red sun descended behind the moors. Lydia, bless her, was still up
for this. She was determined to see the game out. As her teeth began to chatter, I
suggested that we should leave. Dead authoritative stuff. But she implored me to let her
stay. Honest! Except I kept thinking how Liz would have dragged her off the terraces,
refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer. Dads like me are crap as parents.
For most of the second half, Burnley pressed forward. They seemed better at keeping
their footing. They might have run away with it after Roger Eli had nodded in Neil
Grewcock’s brilliant cross. But they blew chance after chance as Grewcock tore
Stockport’s flank to shreds. But by the end, it was Burnley who was hanging on. A
late, thumping header left Pearce stranded. Then it was all hands to the pump,
particularly after the fracas, which resulted in Pearce and a Stockport forward being
dismissed. Andy Farrell donned the jersey. His every touch was cheered wildly. By then, we
were huddled in a large crowd, waiting near the Beehole exit, urging the final whistle.
That tension got to Lydia. As we were defrosting in the car afterwards, she said,
"All those people were really worried at the end, weren’t they? Whistling and
looking at their watches all the time. Can we go again?" You see all real supporters
know that football is not about entertainment. You only get entertainment when success is
a cert. For the most part it is anguish, heaped upon bloody anguish. I didn’t have to
tell Lydia that. She grasped it for herself.
As we drove up the Todmorden Road, it became time for her second initiation:
Saturday’s Football Report. I reckon that the results are best heard in a car, on a
cold winter’s evening with the remnants of a raw sunset still in the sky. The
car’s confines and the dark help intensify the expectation. Lydia fell in with all of
this quite easily; contentedly working out the new tables as the results came through. The
bug was steadily eating its way into her system. Dads are usually the best pushers, when
it comes to obsessions. Mums are generally more sensible.
During that sombre winter, we visited Turf Moor several times more, before Liz’s
mother finally died. Suddenly, we had something new that we could chatter about, something
which helped fill the empty spaces, something which generated a new enthusiasm. Seven
years on, other things now dominate Lydia’s life, as you might expect from someone
who is eighteen. But she still wears the shirt and still hankers after crap from the club
shop, even though the results are a bit more of an after thought. I suppose, what I’m
saying is that she’s maturing. Of course, maturity is not for everyone. I should
know.
