Always The Underblogs
September 14, 2018 The Middle-Raged Dadchildren, football, parents, soccer Leave a comment
Last weekend, I became a Footy Dad.
By that, I mean I became one of those fathers who spends his Saturday/Sunday mornings in all kinds of weather (and it was most certainly raining at the time), watching his child play for a local football team.
I'm not entirely sure whether 'Footy Dad' is the correct term, as I've only been to one match so far, and none of the other parents have explained what we should refer to ourselves as yet (I felt silly asking, and it didn't seem important at the time); but I suppose the best way to explain it is this: I became the male British equivalent of a 'Soccer Mom' – only 'Footy Dad' sounds less sexy.
Anyway, if we thought Isaac's first day at school could have gone better, that was nothing compared to poor Ollie's debut in the Mid-Cheshire Youth Football League (although at least Ollie didn't cling to me and refuse to go onto the pitch).
Ollie only joined the Sandbach United Under-9's 'Kites' team a couple of weeks ago, and had been to just two training sessions prior to the start of the season (the latter of which was only the night before).
As such, he didn't really know most of his teammates before the first match on Saturday, and – more importantly – the manager wasn't sure where best to play him. Ollie is adamant he is a striker, but what nine-year-old doesn't think they should be the one scoring all the goals? It's extremely rare to find a young aspiring footballer who is desperate to play at left-back.
Thankfully, the training session a few weeks ago, and then the 'pre-season friendly' last Friday night, had both seemed to go relatively well, so the manager was optimistic of at least giving The Kites' first competitive opponents a decent test. Unfortunately, however, this optimism was short-lived.
When we arrived, there was a bit of time before kick-off for me to take some pictures of Ollie in his new kit – which, whilst the Kites' away strip this season (the home kit hasn't arrived yet, apparently), is still alarmingly reminiscent of Burnley's colours, and to a Stockport County fan this is horrifying (long story short: they cheated at Wembley in 1994, were promoted at County's expense, and I haven't forgiven them since). Still, despite the disgusting colour scheme, Ollie looked very grown up and smart, and I managed a few photos dotted around what is a very impressive set up at Sandbach United.
As the 10.30am kick-off time arrived, Ollie and the rest of his new team mates were called over by the manager, who quickly ran through their starting formation – and even though I was some distance away by the side of the pitch, it was quickly apparent that Ollie would be starting as a lone striker up front. I was now beaming with pride, and just praying he could score at least one goal.
The fact that Ollie didn't know the names of his teammates turned out not to be a problem, because it transpired almost all of the squad were called either Lucas or Jacob; so, by shouting one of those names, he at least stood a good chance of attracting someone's attention.
The referee then indicated that one boy from each team should come over to determine who would kick off, and Ollie (being the nearest Kites player to the centre spot) readily volunteered.
To my amusement, kick-off was not decided by the usual coin toss (as is customary), but instead by an impromptu game of 'rock, paper, scissors'. I assume this is standard throughout the league, rather than at the whim of this referee in particular; but should tomorrow's kick-off be determined by a quick 'thumb war', or even 'musical statues', I will be just as equally delighted.
Continuing my proud father moment, Ollie's rock destroyed his opponent's puny scissors, and it was all I could do to restrain myself at the side of the pitch. I had to remind myself that, much as I was desperate to yell "Ha! In your face, dickhead!" at the opposing player, he was only eight years old, and presumably one or more of his legal guardians would be nearby.
Ollie then kicked off (rather prematurely, in all honesty, as the referee had not yet blown his whistle – but seeing as we later went to watch Stockport County that afternoon, and even they managed to screw up kick off, I subsequently apologised to Ollie for laughing at his eagerness).
Almost immediately, it became clear that Ollie's team were likely to be outclassed, as their opponents passed the ball around well, and won every tackle. Unsurprisingly, therefore, it wasn't long before they went ahead. Ollie, meanwhile, looked utterly lost up front, but equally didn't get involved enough to try and win the ball. I pointed this out to one of the mums who we know, but we both agreed that it was their first match, and Ollie was just settling in.
Unfortunately, not all of the adults on the touchline were as patient/considerate as us, and one grandfather in particular (I assume he was a grandfather, as he looked to be of retirement age, but he also appeared to be from one of those families where even the middle-aged members are on borrowed time) became very vocal towards the players, singling Ollie out in particular:
"Who's that kid there? He's just standing there doing nothing!"
I wanted to respond with: "That's actually my son. He's eight years old, this is his first match, and, in case you hadn't noticed, it's pissing it down. How about you cut him some fucking slack, you horrible, odious, mouth-breathing swamp donkey?"; but, as ever in this sort of situation, I had to quickly assess my chances of ending up in hospital, and decided that this chap – whilst potentially elderly – probably didn't lose all his teeth eating toffees.
Even though I later regretted not defending my son, I made a mental note to instead blog about this piece of shit the following Friday (today) and wish upon him a plague of every venereal disease known to man (plus, if possible, some not yet known to man). The fact that his penis was almost certainly black and shrivelled already, made little difference to me, and I was comforted by my mental act of revenge.
I then became slightly side-tracked, by trying to remember how to spell gonorrhoea (even now, having spell-checked it, that still doesn't look right to me), and by the time I regained my focus on the match, Ollie's team were 4-0 down.
Now, if I thought the unusual kick-off routine was a bit different, another rule I was unaware of until last weekend was that, should a team find themselves 4-0 down, they are allowed to bring an extra player onto the pitch. So, just when I thought Ollie may be substituted for someone better, his team ended up with an extra man on the field.
Unfortunately, this made no difference whatsoever, as they just as quickly found themselves 8-0 down, meaning their only remaining player could also enter the pitch. To further compound the problem, their opponents were now able to rotate their players to give some of them a rest, whereas The Kites had to keep all of their players on until the end of the match (or at least until they reduced the goal deficit, but this seemed unlikely). Unsurprisingly, they quickly became knackered – and soaked.
This didn't help the mood of the group next to me, and one father in particular who – whilst at least directing vitriol towards his own son rather than mine – took matters a little too far (following a badly timed slide tackle) by shouting 'Stay on your fucking feet!'. Classy.
Anyway, much as I would love for this story to end in triumph, with Ollie's team overcoming adversity to snatch victory with the last kick of the game (preferably with Ollie scoring the winner, so that I could run the length of the pitch waving my shirt around my head); sadly it was not to be, and I lost count of the score when it got to 15-0.
I was, however, immensely proud of Ollie – and the rest of his team for that matter – since at no point did his head drop, and more importantly, he didn't cry (which, if I'm honest, I fully expected him to).
In fact, he seems relatively upbeat about tomorrow's match (God love his optimism) and has spent the last few days working out 'tactics' on FIFA 18. Unfortunately, this has involved him playing as Burnley (so that the kit looks realistic), but at least he has changed all the players' names to match those of his teammates.
"Lucas, passes to Lucas, back to Jacob, who picks out Lucas, Jacob shoots…."
See, don't they look similar?
Wish us luck for tomorrow, and thanks for reading x
It's A Funny Old Blog
July 13, 2018 The Middle-Raged Dadengland, football, itscominghome, russia 2018, soccer, World Cup Leave a comment
This Sunday's the World Cup Final
And England will not be there
We won't be lifting the trophy in Moscow
Dancing on the streets of Red Square
Whatever you may think of football
This has been a special world cup
For a while we truly believed
(then on Wednesday night fucked it right up)
The first World Cup I remember
Was Italia '90 – I was ten
It was the first time I really loved football
The hopes of a nation, and then
We played our old foes in the semis
And extra-time ended all square
West Germany beat us on penners
I can still recall my despair.
Our fortunes since then have been woeful
Disappointment and failure ever since
Even the most hopeful of fans
Would take some work to convince.
We failed to qualify US Ninety-Four
So I supported the Irish instead
Diana Ross' comical penalty
The heat going to Jack Charlton's head
Made the second-stage France Ninety-Eight
Michael Owen's incredible strike
Couldn't beat old Argentina
And Glenn Hoddle was soon on his bike
Then Japan in Two-Thousand-and-Two
England made it to the final eight
But the overall winners Brazil
Unsurprisingly sealed our fate
In Germany Two-Thousand-and-Six
A quarter-final defeat once again
Losing on penalties now habit
And the final straw for old Sven
This time our rivals were Portugal
Wayne Rooney was having a stinker
When his teammate got him red-carded
The smug greasy Portuguese winker
To South Africa Two-Thousand-and-Ten
Where a last-sixteen knock-out awaited
Once again the Germans destroyed us
Leaving England fans sad and deflated
Then four years ago down in Brazil
England's worst world cup exit to date
Finishing bottom of Group D in disgrace
Paved the way for Gareth Southgate
Qualifying for Russia all sorted
In the group stage our Three Lions shone
Then on to knock out Colombia
With fears of penalties now gone
Winning with ease against Sweden
Set us up nicely for Wednesday night
A team playing as one for their nation
With World Cup glory in sight
But, alas, it was not to be
With the trophy almost in touch
We couldn't beat lowly Croatia
The final was one step too much
I'd have loved to be sat there on Sunday
Watching something that I've never seen
England in a World Cup Final
Standing for 'God Save The Queen'
Cheering our team onto victory
Losing our shit when we score
It might have been fifty-two years
But we'd be champions once more
I guess I'll have to keep waiting
In four years I'll dream once again
Perhaps then England's young squad
Will fair better as more mature men
It's still been a fantastic journey
Not just for passion and noise
But I'm proud of my country once more
And I can share that with both of my boys
For a moment we thought it may happen
But the dream can't be ours any more
Turns out it's not coming home
It's being delivered next door.
Thanks for reading x