It is from a precarious perch I tend to view football these days.
Branded a bitter old cynic by one son when I try to engage with the modern game, I am labelled a soppy sentimentalist by the other when regaling how great football once seemed.
My sons are, to a degree, excused these assertions due to their formative years of football interest coinciding with the advent of the Premiership, an era which has split the game in the same way a meteorite wiped out the dinosaurs – football before 1992 now the Jurassic period from which only fossils remain.
Indeed, my protestations reach the same decibel level as a T. Rex growling with indigestion every time I hear the latest ‘of the Premiership era‘ statistic – my blood hotter than any velociraptor when I retort ‘there was football before the Premiership you know.’
As the fact usually refers to a goal-scoring feat, this old-timer generally leaves the room with an indignant slam of the door muttering ‘a bloke called Jimmy Greaves actually holds that record.’
To clarify – and ensure on-going family harmony – my sons are both decent and amiable young men. Their embrace of all things Premier League is not held against them, as most of their generation appear to see football in much the same way.
But they once listened with incredulity spread across their young faces when I told them a month of fixtures for Shrewsbury Town, my hometown team, back in the day could comprise (and this in the decade the eldest was born) of Manchester City (A), West Ham United (H), Crystal Palace (A), Chelsea (H) – the notion of seeing Chelsea play a league match at Gay Meadow, akin to saying Madonna once played a gig at the local youth club.
Such are their ages now and familiarity with the tale, these days when that old chestnut is rolled out, it just brings a ‘how much has Dad had?’ roll of the eyes.
Fixture schedules have been dominating my football thoughts lately, no doubt induced by release of 2019-2020 lists – Sky Sports incorporating the obligatory 10-second countdown into their coverage of the Premiership fixture launch. Being brought up never to trust a fixture list unless produced in ink on paper, such a concept seems more novel than ever with the amount of re-scheduling now to occur in accommodating televised games.
At the risk once more, of sounding reactionary, there was a time when the nine months from August to April (give or take the odd postponement or cup match re-arrangement), could be plotted by 3pm Saturday or 7.30pm midweek – and with the FA Cup Final always the first Saturday of May, the job was square.
For years my Dad lived by the adage ‘never book a summer holiday until the fixtures are out.’ Fearful of missing an early season visit of Spurs or Manchester United to Molineux (August 1971 brought both), once match calculations had been made, our family holiday could be planned – and if, as often happened, the destination was Blackpool, then either the arriving Saturday or a midweek night would involve he and I strolling along to Bloomfield Road.
Due to the un-altering reliability of the scheduled three o’clock Saturday kick-off, re-assuring life patterns developed – with regular departure and return home times. With every other team playing on the same day, coming back in the car with the radio on meant digesting all the results.
The analysis was purely our own – the bond created in the dark confines of that vehicle forged for a lifetime.
Played by Chelsea and Manchester City –
but not Madonna
How my Dad would have approached weekends in the late-60s/early 70s if matches had been spread across the weekend, I am not sure.
My Mum went along with the summer holiday considerations and sanctity of Saturday afternoon, but Friday evening was always designated for the supermarket shop and Sunday left clear as a family day – fifty-eight years of marriage (and counting) no doubt enhanced by Wolves not hosting Everton on a Sunday afternoon or Monday night in November 1970.
Thank goodness for that I say – had it been a Monday, I would not have been allowed to go with primary school waiting on Tuesday morning.
Despite the adjustments families have to make in order to spend time watching football these days, particularly at the top level, there still appears plenty of evidence to suggest fathers, sons, mothers, daughters (in any permutation) are sharing experiences like mine and enjoying the togetherness football offers. I certainly hope so.
Admittedly this is an extreme case, but in the October half-term week of 2001, my youngest son and I went to matches at Newcastle, Middlesbrough, Shrewsbury, Crewe, Wigan and Everton – these games among the 100 plus we attended in seasons 2001/02 and 2002/03.
Older and arguably wiser, I am not sure whether to be beguiled or just plain baffled by that feat. Of all the football we saw, about a dozen games could actually be classed as memorable – but a thousand fabulous memories were created along the way.
George now looks back on that time as his ‘gap year.’ He was 11.
So then – am I cynical or sentimental about a new set of fixtures being in circulation? Nowadays my relationship with football mirrors that I have with The Kinks – deference to all the great times past, rather than optimism for what the future might hold.
Which is not to say a few games haven’t caught my eye in terms of meeting up with sons and nephews – train journeys with plenty of football chat and the on-going thrill of heading to a match.
Irrespective of kick-off time – or the day of the week.
This article was first published on 26/6/2019;
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NEIL SAMBROOK is the author of ‘MONTY’S DOUBLE‘ – an acclaimed thriller available as an Amazon Kindle Book.
