An England International
footballer once described pressure as: Preparing to take a spot kick during a
World Cup penalty shoot-out, knowing that the hopes and expectations of an
entire footballing nation were resting heavily on his shoulders. Score and he would
become a hero, worshipped throughout the land. Miss and the most he had to look
forward to was hearing chants of how his wife likes to take it up the arse at
every away stadium up and down the country.
Well without wishing to sound too flippant, if that player had been into my family he would have realised he was talking out of his own backside.
As far as I‘m concerned, real pressure is preparing to take a penalty during the final minute of the under 14s Derbyshire schools` knockout competition. Real pressure is standing in a muddy field during the coldest winters on record while suffering from chickenpox, with the wind and rain lashing against my spot covered face; knowing that the hopes and expectations of my Manchester United loving Father, who was cheering me on from the touchline were rested heavily on my shoulders.
Score and I would become a hero, and I could look forward to fish and chips and being allowed to stop up late to watch Starsky and Hutch. Miss, and all I had to look forward to was being dragged back home by the earlobe, to face four hours of penalty practise in the garden, with my dad shuffling backwards and forwards wearing an oven glove, as he pretended to be Peter Schmeichel.
I think it was at that moment, as I stood alone in the penalty area with my knees knocking together, wiping the rain and snot from my face, and listening to my Father shout encouraging phrases like “GO ON SON, KICK THE BASTARD!” as he jumped up and down behind the goal, that I first began to realise I really didn’t like playing football very much at all.
I placed the ball on the spot, and backed slowly away from it, desperately trying not to catch the eye of my father who was standing behind the goal throwing handfuls of mud at the back of the goalkeepers head in an effort to distract him. As soon as the penalty was awarded, and the rest of my team mates volunteered me to take it by running to the other side of the pitch, I decided that the best way to deal with the situation was to just close my eyes and kick the ball as hard as I possibly could.
I took a deep breath and pulled the sleeves of my saturated jersey down over my hands in an effort to protect myself from the cold, launched myself at the ball - missed it completely - flew arse over tit - and finished face down in the mud screaming for a free kick while the crowd began jeering me from the touchline.
“BOOOOOOO!”
“YOU‘RE SHIT!”
“GET OFF THE PITCH YOU LANKY STREAK OF PISS!”
And that was just the teachers.
Forty five minutes later and I had showered and changed, and my Father and I were making our way home through the wind and the rain. With me forced to walk twenty paces behind in case my dad bumped into anybody he knew.
Knowing I had disappointed my father was something I ought to have gotten used to over the years. Especially when you consider how often it happened.
The first time was when I was only
10 years old and my dad arrived home early from work and discovered me playing
doctors and nurses with my best friend, Timothy. I‘m still not sure who was the
most surprised that day. Me, for suddenly having a home made thermometer
inserted into my bottom, or my father, for finding me spread-eagled over the
kitchen table with my underpants around my ankles dressed as a nurse. I tried
to reassure him it was nothing to worry about, but it can be difficult forming
an argument on the merits of cross dressing when you are bent over your fathers’
knee as he hammers home your best friend’s lollipop stick with his size twelve
slipper.
Once out of hospital and much to my buttocks despair, I continued to disappoint my Father on an almost weekly basis. Such as the day of my eleventh birthday when he noticed I had been applying my Mothers lipstick to my brand new action man. Or the time just a few days later, when, during one of his now regular toy inspections, my Father found that very same action man naked in the back of his army truck, holding hands with G.I Joe.
But on this particular day my Dad was different somehow. When we eventually reached home and I’d finished watching the rest of the family eating their fish and chip suppers from the garden with my face pressed hungrily against the dining room window, I suspected that there would be no penalty practice for me that night. And neither would my bottom be thrashed to within an inch of its worthless life by the slipper that my Father had affectionately named “The Tenderiser.”
Whereas normally he’d be ranting and raving, telling me that I was an accident and that he would have been better off just wanking into a tissue all those years ago, my father was worryingly quiet during that long walk home, almost as if he had entirely given up hope. Knowing I was an embarrassment to my Father was one thing. Suspecting that he just didn’t care anymore was something different altogether.
It was then that I made a decision. I decided to ask him the question that I knew he had been asking himself ever since I hit puberty, and he walked into my bedroom and discovered Timothy and I, plaiting each others pubic hair while listening to Kylie Minogue. I decided to ask him whether he thought I was a gay. One way or another, I just had to find out the truth.
My opportunity arose a few hundred yards down the street, when he suddenly pulled me into a shop doorway after spotting one of his friends staggering out of the local pub. Once we had finished dodging his friend’s piss after he stopped to relieve himself in our hiding place we finally set off for home again. Only this time, and much to my Fathers bewilderment, I started walking beside him.
During the next few miles my Dad tried a variety of techniques to shake off my attentions. Such as quickening his pace until we had both broken into a jog. Or dodging in and out of parked cars when he thought I wasn’t looking. But on this occasion I refused to give up. Until eventually, as we nearing the road we had to cross to reach the fish and chip shop, my Father who was almost breathless by now slowed to an almost leisurely crawl.
My Father and I walked silently side by side for the next few minutes, until I finally plucked up enough courage to speak to him.
“I’m not very good at football am I, dad.”
My father sighed, the deepest of sighs. “Not really, son. No!”
“Do you think It’s because I’m a faggot, dad?”
My Father stopped and looked about to see if anybody was within earshot before slowly turning to face me. The fingers of his slipper hand twitching against his thigh, like a gunslinger flexing his muscles before meting out justice to someone who was about to wrong him. And if there was one thing you could be sure about with my Father, it’s that he was always quick on the draw. “I don’t know, son, “he said, as he leant in towards me until his face was practically touching mine. “Are you a faggot?”
“I don’t think so.” I said, with complete and utter honesty, and it was true I really didn‘t. “I know I like looking at the girls knickers when they’re swinging on the swings.”
My father put his hand on my shoulder and smiled the faintest of smiles. “That’s good, son,” he said, “That’s good.”
My father and I never spoke during the rest of our journey, and I began to wonder whether our conversation had been entirely worthwhile. That was until my Father did something that shocked and amazed me, and changed the course of our relationship forever.
As we were nearing the road we had to cross to reach “The Battered Fish.” my dad stopped and turned towards me again, and said the words I never thought I would hear him say after shaming him on the football pitch. “Fish and chips is it, son? He asked, as though it was something he said every day.
Now it was my turn to smile. “Yes please, dad.” I said, before adding, “Do you want me to hide outside in the bushes again while you‘re ordering?”
“Not tonight, son.” He said, taking hold of my hand and leading me across the road. ”Tonight you can wait in the warm.”
And that was that. Here I was a thirteen year old boy walking hand in hand with his homophobic Father across a busy main road, in front of anybody who might actually know us, and I can honestly say I have never felt more proud to be his son.
Once out of hospital and much to my buttocks despair, I continued to disappoint my Father on an almost weekly basis. Such as the day of my eleventh birthday when he noticed I had been applying my Mothers lipstick to my brand new action man. Or the time just a few days later, when, during one of his now regular toy inspections, my Father found that very same action man naked in the back of his army truck, holding hands with G.I Joe.
But on this particular day my Dad was different somehow. When we eventually reached home and I’d finished watching the rest of the family eating their fish and chip suppers from the garden with my face pressed hungrily against the dining room window, I suspected that there would be no penalty practice for me that night. And neither would my bottom be thrashed to within an inch of its worthless life by the slipper that my Father had affectionately named “The Tenderiser.”
Whereas normally he’d be ranting and raving, telling me that I was an accident and that he would have been better off just wanking into a tissue all those years ago, my father was worryingly quiet during that long walk home, almost as if he had entirely given up hope. Knowing I was an embarrassment to my Father was one thing. Suspecting that he just didn’t care anymore was something different altogether.
It was then that I made a decision. I decided to ask him the question that I knew he had been asking himself ever since I hit puberty, and he walked into my bedroom and discovered Timothy and I, plaiting each others pubic hair while listening to Kylie Minogue. I decided to ask him whether he thought I was a gay. One way or another, I just had to find out the truth.
My opportunity arose a few hundred yards down the street, when he suddenly pulled me into a shop doorway after spotting one of his friends staggering out of the local pub. Once we had finished dodging his friend’s piss after he stopped to relieve himself in our hiding place we finally set off for home again. Only this time, and much to my Fathers bewilderment, I started walking beside him.
During the next few miles my Dad tried a variety of techniques to shake off my attentions. Such as quickening his pace until we had both broken into a jog. Or dodging in and out of parked cars when he thought I wasn’t looking. But on this occasion I refused to give up. Until eventually, as we nearing the road we had to cross to reach the fish and chip shop, my Father who was almost breathless by now slowed to an almost leisurely crawl.
My Father and I walked silently side by side for the next few minutes, until I finally plucked up enough courage to speak to him.
“I’m not very good at football am I, dad.”
My father sighed, the deepest of sighs. “Not really, son. No!”
“Do you think It’s because I’m a faggot, dad?”
My Father stopped and looked about to see if anybody was within earshot before slowly turning to face me. The fingers of his slipper hand twitching against his thigh, like a gunslinger flexing his muscles before meting out justice to someone who was about to wrong him. And if there was one thing you could be sure about with my Father, it’s that he was always quick on the draw. “I don’t know, son, “he said, as he leant in towards me until his face was practically touching mine. “Are you a faggot?”
“I don’t think so.” I said, with complete and utter honesty, and it was true I really didn‘t. “I know I like looking at the girls knickers when they’re swinging on the swings.”
My father put his hand on my shoulder and smiled the faintest of smiles. “That’s good, son,” he said, “That’s good.”
My father and I never spoke during the rest of our journey, and I began to wonder whether our conversation had been entirely worthwhile. That was until my Father did something that shocked and amazed me, and changed the course of our relationship forever.
As we were nearing the road we had to cross to reach “The Battered Fish.” my dad stopped and turned towards me again, and said the words I never thought I would hear him say after shaming him on the football pitch. “Fish and chips is it, son? He asked, as though it was something he said every day.
Now it was my turn to smile. “Yes please, dad.” I said, before adding, “Do you want me to hide outside in the bushes again while you‘re ordering?”
“Not tonight, son.” He said, taking hold of my hand and leading me across the road. ”Tonight you can wait in the warm.”
And that was that. Here I was a thirteen year old boy walking hand in hand with his homophobic Father across a busy main road, in front of anybody who might actually know us, and I can honestly say I have never felt more proud to be his son.
