[Editorial Warning: the following contains material of a football therefore cliche nature]

 

 

One thing, the only thing my dad and I had in common was football. Our love for the beautiful game (cliche nr 1, please count for yourselves from now on otherwise it will get tedious). And for our so beloved local football team. He must have been very good playing it too, especially in his prime. You see, he gave birth to me at a far older age than dads usually do. Which meant that by the time he could have a decent, proper kick-about with his young and only son, he was nearing his fifties. I didn’t realise then, but with me playing now, at least trying to, remembering the few occasions he played with me and comparing me to him, it is very impressive how at his age, after having smoked all those fags, drank all that whiskey, he was still so capable, so good.

 

Technically. Physically. And always thinking, always looking for footballing solutions. I understand now why I prefer to give the brilliant, deciding, final pass, rather than scoring the scrappy goal myself. Got that from him. Why I am a struggling, attacking midfielder. Not a forward. Or defender. But he was much much stronger and more physical than I will ever be. If he’d ever had to mark me in a game, I’d have stood nee chance. Unless if he had been drinking. Even then. He was a much much better drinker than I will ever be.

 

He would have fared well in this northern amateur league I am currently drowning in. Not long now before I will announce an injury far worse than the hernia from my climbing accident. The English love their football, but they are mad, mental, and demented. These guys, especially ‘ere up North, seem to think that tackling is the best thing ever invented on a football pitch. Unlike me. Who prefers the dribble, the shimmy, than the splitting pass. Until some slow 6 and a half foot, 18 stone, ear-studded, cross-eyed, small-dicked, beer-swilling centre-half decides that enough is enough and buries me right there and then in the muddy, always awful pitch, my designated graveyard, my last resting place. Mumbling something about cheating foreigners and their poncey tricks. 

 

“Ref!? What the fuck you’re whistling for? You’re fucking blind? Got the fucking ball, me, didn’t you see?” 

 

He just murdered your faithfully, sincerely yours by kicking him in half and didn’t even get a yellow card for it. But the pint in the local in half an hour’s time is gonna taste so good to him.

 

My dad only once visited where I chose to live. Ten and a half years ago and he was already quite ill then. He liked it in the North East. For one because his only son was living there. For two because he was bankrolling it. For three because he understood that football as a religion up ‘ere is a cliche as true as truisms will ever get. The North East breathes football. Through an artificial life-supporting machine. Most teams fighting relegation. Apart from the one I am in actually, but that’s got nowt to do with me. Nor the 8 goals I scored so far. And the 14 assists I gave. Statistics in local papers. Don’t you just love them? Sorry, was that me day-dreaming there for a second? What do you mean “missed opportunities in life”?

 

Football ‘ere up North = Religion. See Kevin Keegan’s third reincarnation as the Messiah. My dad was a Kevin Keegan fan. Always watched the Bundesliga on TV together when Keegan dominated the German league in his nr. 7 black and blue, sometimes red, hardly ever green, but never purple Hamburg shirt. At first, I didn’t particularly like him because as an 8-9 year old I preferred Bayern Munich, the team that usually won. Hamburg SV were just a nobody. Step up Keegan and he did magical things for HSV. And me. And for himself. He won European Player of the Year twice in a row whilst playing for them. And we all became somebody.

 

Still haven’t worked out why Keegan’s appointment has stirred so much in me. Certainly has done something to me system. 

 

Maybe because when I arrived 11 year’s ago in my adopted home town, Newcastle United were managed by Keegan, were everyone’s favourite second team in England, were at the top of their game. Like me. I remember being in a pub when they beat Man U 5-0 with a stunning  goal by David Ginola (55s into the video) and an even more extraordinary one by Philippe Albert (do fast forward to 03:50, it’s worth it). The place, the pub, the city, the region went mad. Stayed mad for weeks. It came as close to football heaven as I had ever experienced. Well, apart from the sensational successes of my own team. 

 

Maybe because I long for that feeling of being able to start all over again in a new place. Long for that feeling of insecurity and excitement of arriving in a place where everything is fresh, where you cannot understand a single soul because in those days the accent sounded more like a Mandarin dialect than an English one. Precisely the one I am now and then trying to echo in my blogs. 

 

Maybe because I have lost my innocence about the place since. Maybe I just miss my innocence. Maybe it has fuck all to do about the place. The Place. Or my innocence.

 

Maybe I just. No, not maybe. Or just. 

 

I miss my dad.