Que Sera Sera, Part 1 of 3

I like to write. I also like to watch sport. So, what better than to write about sport? Especially Football. Association Football. Soccer.

Firstly, let's get something clarified. I don' t consider myself to be a fan of any particular club. Not any more. I lost faith in the game. I'd hoped to seek solace in a book called The Game of Our Lives by David Goldblatt (available at all good retailers, and a few bad ones too).

It only served, for me at least, to confirm many nagging doubts. I’m sure that it was not the intention of this book to re-affirm my already dwindling support for my team, but it managed to succeed. Maybe the river had already ran dry, I guess I’ll never know. I leant the book to a friend whom I thought was mad. Week, after week watching one turgid performance after another. Finally, he was put out of his misery and his team were relegated from the Premier League.

Reading the book did not have the same effect on him. He said it was a really good read. I did at least agree with his critique.

To those who continue to support your team through thick and thin, I applaud you.

The following is the first part of something inspired by the above. Hope you like it:

2:45. Quarter of an hour to kick-off. The late-winter sun shone brightly over the stand opposite. The man covered his eyes with his left hand. It was about as successful as trying to reason with a puppy. An easier solution was to look right, and downward - toward his twelve-year-old son.

‘I’m really excited, Dad.’

The man gently stroked his bearded chin with his thumb and fore-finger.

How can he be excited? We've not won a game at home all season. We've not scored a goal in five games.

He stopped stroking and pondered further.

What does "we" even mean? This is the team from the town where I was born. It's my team. But is it really mine?

He looked back down at his son, taking another tentative bite of the steak pie that he' d asked for, but didn't really like.

‘Really excited.’

Even at twelve, he had mastered the art of saying what he thought his father wanted to hear. He hated football. His feet were freezing cold. The pie was horrible. He wanted to be back at home, playing on his Xbox. And now, the sun was getting in his eyes, and he was starting to feel a pain in his temple.

In truth, his dad was starting to feel the same way - save the games console. Surely, there was something else he could be doing for three hours every second Saturday.  At least that's what his wife thought.

‘Have you had a look at the match programme, son?’

Of course you haven’t. You never do. It doesn’t stop you asking every bloody time though. Three pound a pop. Hang on.. Nineteen matches. Three pound a match. That’s at least one game for your sodding Xbox!

‘Yes dad. It’s really good this week.’ A short pause. ‘Who are we playing again today?’

The man looked skyward. Straight into the blinding sun. He whinced.

‘On the front page, mate. Right-hand side, at the bottom.’

‘Oh.’

Suddenly the noise started. 2:55. Jean-Michel Jarre’s Equinoxe pt5, no less. The man, and his boy looked up. The team was coming out of the tunnel, alongside their counterparts. Ready for battle. Mascots attached to each player’s hand. Boys and girls, probably no older than his son. Beaming smiles. So happy.

Their parents must be so proud.

He looked down at the boy, who in turn looked up. He smiled as he ruffled the boy’s short hair.

“This is my favourite bit!”

They stood, along with the rest of the crowd. Clapping. Cheering. Singing. Singing the name of the town, his town, over and over again.

Why are they doing this? They know what the outcome is going to be. From where does this blind faith come forth?

He laughed at the thought, then abruptly stopped clapping. His son, who couldn’t see beyond the six-foot gentleman in-front, did the same. He took his seat. So did his son. Eventually, the rest of the thirty-odd thousand people in the stadium stopped clapping and chanting and duly followed suit, in almost unnerving synchronicity.

3:00. Kick off on the dot. A huge roar. The roar fell with a dull thud, as the opposition quickly dispossessed an attack for the home team, and launched the ball up field with pin-point accuracy. The crowd watched as the ball was headed down into the path of the oncoming midfielder, in centre field, who dissected the oncoming two defenders with ease and left the striker - top scorer in the league no less - with a simple tap past the goalkeeper.

The players stared at each other, then to the bench, looking for inspiration. The match plan (if there even was one) was blown apart in forty-six seconds. He looked around. Most of the crowd were looking at one another. Dumbfounded.

Well, that optimism lasted, didn’t it?!

3:03. Following post-goal celebrations, the second kick-off. Only this time with a one-goal handicap, and met with complete silence. He looked down once more at the boy. He shrugged his shoulders.

3:09. A total defensive calamity let in the opposition for their second. In truth, a really well taken goal. It was too much for the man in front.

’Bleedin’ useless crap! What the f..’ He’d turned to notice the boy was sat, staring at him. He tried to smile. He turned quickly to face the pitch once more. His wife looked back at the boy, and smiled reassuringly at him. Similarly, with the man.

The man infront had just joined a very distinguished club. One which contained those that had suddenly become aware of their “salty” use of the English language and dealt with this realisation in a mature and sensible way. In short to shut the f*** up.

Unlike the rest of the stadium within five seconds of the ball hitting the net for a second time, and certainly not the gentleman five rows down. He knew that his son must hear this and much worse at school on a day-by-day basis, so simply decided to turn the other cheek.

Boos started to echo around the ground.

Only ten minutes ago, you were all cheering and singing. You’ve cheered and sang for the previous ten games. It didn’t help then, and it’s not going to help now. We’re bottom of the league playing third. You all really thought it was going to be different today? REALLY??

3:24. Time for number three. A crescendo of foul-mouthed abuse, and boos arrived even before the ball crossed the line. As they did fifteen minutes later when number four went in.

3:44. The first cheer of the day, albeit an ironic one, as the home side managed its first attempt on goal. An extremely tame one. By this time, even the opposition were playing at quarter pace.

3:46. Like pulling open the trap door on the gallows, the referee blew on his whistle to put just about everyone out of their misery. All except the away fans. And one lonely home one. The man looked down at his son. The look in his eyes showed that he really wouldn’t care if it was four, ten, or even four to their team. He flashed-back momentarily to his own childhood. Days when he was the one looking up at his father. He couldn’t help thinking of a song by Half man, half biscuit - Dukla Prague Away Kit.

Come to half-time, you were losing four-nil...

‘Each and every goal a hotly disputed penalty!’ he exclaimed.

His son looked up at him, totally perplexed. The man laughed. Loudly.

Part 2 to follow...