Cod Almighty | Article

by John Pakey

7 June 2005

The decision of how to name a loved one who has just been brought into the world is a difficult one. For weeks the family's discussion at the dinner table on Sundays was what to call the new dog, with a number of names being suggested by different members of the household.

My mum particularly favours a shorter name. This is generally because when the said dog is belting across the Essex marshland and into the saltwater she can bellow it out several times, in a vain attempt to call the animal back, without getting out of breath.

By way of shorter names Bob, Ted, Red, Reg and Alf were all suggested, but they were lacking that personal touch. Then Mum suggested Mac. Mac was a fair shout. But then, with a swoop of tactical genius that was more surprising than anything Lennie Lawrence ever pulled off, my dad asked: "Why don't we call him Macca?" He smiled to himself, knowing that Mum was oblivious to the full implications of what she was about to agree to.

Mum did agree after my support, knowing what route my dad was going down. Without realising it, my mum, not the world's greatest Grimsby fan (her only bonus about my dad supporting the club is that it gets him out of the house for a day a few times a year), had allowed her beloved new dog to be burdened with the name of a Grimsby player.

I defend the decision, though. Macca, or the real Macca, Sir John of McDermott, is by far one of the greatest servants to Town, if not football, this great world has ever seen. If I had the money to build a brilliant statue in his honour and the power to knight him then I would. Sadly I'm but a mortal - but a mortal with a quick-thinking dad, and we have done our best to salute this football god by bestowing his name on the new cherished one in our family.

I'm yet to fully understand how Macca will handle life with such a big name on his shoulders. But the picture shows he's eager to get stuck in, quite literally, to the job of living up to the hero he is named after.

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