68 Christmas 1966

Dad rarely took an interest in how his boys were doing at school, yet he was always keen to see our reports. Good ones were set aside with little comment. Bad ones sparked holy hell, but I had nothing to fear this time and there was no need to make myself scarce when he came home from work.

Christmas was different now I was a big kid. Mam had let me in on the big secret the previous year, yet as wonderful as it had been to stay up late and help wrap presents, the satisfaction was fleeting and counted for little on Christmas morning when I awoke to the loss of a magic gone forever. I was still hopeful of a few presents though, notably a Hotspur annual and a real leather football that I’d been hinting at for ages.

Brothers Dave and Mike quizzed me about Father Christmas. I knew from their smirking faces they just wanted some big brotherly confirmation, but I wasn’t at liberty to say. As it happened they got their suspicions confirmed when Mam recruited them for elf duty on Christmas Eve. As soon as the little ones were tucked up for the night and Dad had cleared off to the social club, Mam and her three helpers tiptoed round the house and retrieved bags and packages from all kinds of hiding places and carried them to the front room. We weren’t allowed to see what was in the bags Mam set aside for us, but that didn’t stop me trying to spot something that was round and ball-shaped.

Christmas came and Christmas went, along with my hopes of getting a football. I got my Hotspur annual though and I savoured the rarity of writing my name in the ‘this book belongs to’ window on page one of a brand new, fresh smelling book.

Dad was playing in a football match on Boxing Day morning. Two weeks had passed since Mam first mentioned Dad’s need to borrow my football socks, and two weeks of cautious pestering paid off when the big day came and Dad allowed me, Dave and Mike tag along.

On the touchline of a Civil Service Club pitch on the top road, I looked on with my brothers as the game kicked off. Dad playing football was a wonderful surprise. We didn’t even know he liked football. Other than threatening to clobber us if we didn’t keep quiet while Mam jotted down the football results to check her pools coupon on Saturdays, he’d never shown the slightest interest in football. But there he was out on the pitch in a pair of borrowed boots with his trousers tucked into my red and white football socks.

‘Come on Dad!’

It disappointed me that Dad wasn’t playing in full kit, but on a chilly morning, few did and he wasn’t the only one wearing a jumper. Football shirts wouldn’t have been a bad idea though, just to give us a clue who was supposed to be kicking which way.

‘Come on Dad!’

Dad’s team were a goal down in no time… and two goals down soon after.

‘Come on Dad.’

Holding a defensive midfield position, Dad was slow to get going in a game that was passing him by.

‘Come on Dad.’

Thank goodness for Ben, a drinking pal of Dad’s who sometimes called round to our house. Ben was a good ten years older than Dad, but he looked the part in his black tracksuit and when he put in a tackle and went on an impressive dribble, we finally had something to cheer. But for all Ben’s ability, Dad’s team were constantly under pressure and they soon conceded another goal. In a one sided first half it seemed the other team were younger, fitter and keener. We hoped Dad would come good in the second half.

‘Come on Dad.’

Another goal at the wrong end didn’t matter. We’d lost interest in the score; we just wanted Dad to do something; a tackle, a pass, anything.

‘Please Dad.’

For the entire second half we stood and shivered in the hope that Dad would give us something to cheer, but it didn’t happen. As soon as the game ended, Dad was quick to point us in the direction of home and then dash off to the social club, where a barrel of beer was waiting for the participants of the football match.

‘Oh Dad.’