Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

11 August 2009

"The thing that bugs me is that loads of little kids are gonna be walking around in Man City tops," said the lad next to me, wearing a Man United top. I could've made that up but I didn't. Will my boys be sporting the sky blue? The shade makes no difference to me; the competition among the elite seems to be our bank balance is bigger than your bank balance. It further inflates my already inflated sense of superiority to watch the correct black and white struggle and muddle through. There's a sense of pride in the drudgery - too miserable to be unhappy, as you might say.

As you know, I've been projecting that misery on to my children, brainwashing them 'til they see black and white in their dreams - and wake up in a cold sweat. There's another recruit for the treatment now, so it's full steam ahead: ignore the money, forget the bright lights, forget Sky; BP's where it's at!

And what a first season! George is a fan, not necessarily of football and not necessarily of GTFC, but nevertheless he's a fan of being there, and that's a start. He won't watch footy on the telly and he doesn't pay attention at Blundell Park but the stand-out moment that he can't forget, the thing that keeps his thoughts going back to BP and the Argos goalposts in the back yard is Proudlock's penalty against Lincoln. I suppose I could be worried about that, but hey, it's a straw and I'm clinging on.

I say worried because that was the only moment of instant gratification available throughout the whole season for George: I lifted him high and said: watch that man, he's gonna try and put it in the goal, which, of course, he duly did. George went crazy along with a few thousand others and a new Town fan was born.

This should mean that the process gets a little easier for his siblings: middle child should have both George and me hypnotising and bullying persuading. Third child gets the full half-dozen stare treatment. Good plan. And I'll need that support. They're moving on so quickly: Charlie and Lola replaced by Thomas, and now the tank engine is ignored as Spiderman begins to catch his eye. A bit too early for the red and blue violence, I reckon, stick to the charm of subtler colours. Monochrome may even be best. How do I make it look flash? Bring chocolate.

I suppose that an improvement in form and atmosphere that coincided with better weather was almost cheating. I could stretch it and call it fate. I could laugh and cock a sneer at the two-tier Premiership: Everton are the real champions, boys, get yourselves some dark blue, not the sky variety.

I wonder when I can start his true education and begin the detailing of financial horror that precludes, includes and excludes all of football at one time or another. For us to win, someone has to lose - and the financial stakes mean that that defeat happens all too often off the pitch as well as on it. Town didn't stay up last season: they were propped up. We can argue all we like about whether or not Chester and Luton deserved their punishment; the points on the board and the performance on the field said that we were propped up.

The same argument can be heard against the thing that I'm trying to shield my boys from. Manchester United didn't win the Premier League title this year: Liverpool, Chelsea and Arsenal lost it. In a league where only four teams can win and only two of them do, what are they champions of? And what, if I'm totally honest with myself, does it matter if he chooses a red or a blue? Surely it's just a matter of sharing an interest, a commonality.

I suppose that's a part of this brainwashing thing: football support, like anything else, can be broken down into those rather dry terms. I want my boys to have a passion for a team, and passionate support of something a hundred miles away with no connections of blood or suffering seems to me to be merely an interest. Can passion be broadcast by the media? If you only recognise your team through the television and the newspaper, are they really yours?

Do I explain that to my four-year-old? Do I tell him it's up to him? Can I ever claim that his red or blue shirt lacks passion? And right now do I remind him of the turbulence of Town's early season? Do I keep a picture of Tom Newey so that he will always remember him?

Not now, no chance. I can claim a fantastic season because it was only twelve games long. But one day I will, and this turgid, embarrassment of a season will be ours. They're my memories, good and bad, and with a bit of luck they'll be his memories too. He has suffered. At the moment he thinks that suffering was me not bringing enough chocolate, but one day we'll remember.

His first games were at Blundell Park in a Buckley reign and that's a good thing; that connects us all together. These priceless associations link parent to child, fan to fan, club to us. And I can forget the off-pitch stuff as quickly as the first three quarters of the season. New ground? Who knows? Who cares? It'll happen or it won't and we'll be there, two, three, four, five of us. Welcome to the beginning, George; don't forget to bring your brothers.