Father, Son...

This isn't a post about football as such. It's a post about attending football matches with ny father as a child and what it meant to me.

 Dad isn't from Manchester. He's from Carlisle. But, as a man spending his life in that unique city of Manchester, he had a decision to make. He arrived at the decision that Manchester City were the team to support; they were 'the people's' team. Always a champion of the underdog was Dad , the team with a smaller fanbase without the grandiosity of the other lot. 

So it came to pass that the only periods of time I spent alone with my father as a child were at Maine Rd football ground. That matchday ritual; watching the avuncular Bob Wilson on Football Focus after which it was time to go. Driven from deepest Manchester United territory across town our arrival would inevitably be followed by Dad complaining to me bitterly about my mother's driving. On then to a sweet shop on nearby Claremont Rd where a lovely woman with a large Bet Lynch style bouffant would coo at me as we stopped for the pre match bag of sweets. Around the corner, the burning question would be 'is it on Match of The Day?'.Would it be John Motson or Barry Davies? The presence of a BBC van would create anxiety as it usually meant City would lose. On then to the box like souvenir shoo (the away programme from last week's defeat at Wimbledon and a photo of Paul Power if you please). 

Onwards towards the club's main entrance. The snarling antipathy towards the opposition coach as it pulled up...glaring at people like Kenny Dalglish with a mixture of hatred and awe. To the right we would see the City players amble into the ground from the car park, pursued by autograph hunters as if they were the Pied Piper. 'There' s Gordon Davies' Dad would exclaim and off I would run to join the throng to eagerly secure his signature. In the background an elderly man with a placard declaring 'The end is nigh' would look on dissaprovingly.

Into the ground. The electric beer pumps made a strange whirring noise as the pre match anaesthetic was dispensed. Lottery tickets were sold to us by a lovely friendly man in the North Stand. That was the thing about City. It was a friendly club. We belonged there. On studying the back page of the match programme and comparing team line ups, I always thought we had better players than the opposition. In 2017, I still do. Do we ever learn? I'd often wander out to look at the pitch. Great music would be played over the tannoy. Rock With You by Michael Jackson courtesy of the DJ Andy Peebles, a kind of  David 'Diddy' Hamilton of the North.

Down then, to our season ticketed seats. The same faces around us. Two elderly women would be two my left, one considerably more pleasant than the other. 'Big Helen' our legendary bell ringing supporter would wander past. She swore a lot. 

When Dad first took me to City, we had a good side. Goals were scored. As a lad that moment of seeing the ball fired into the opposition net and hearing the ensuing roar was intoxicating, maybe even bewildering. When City scored Dad and I always hugged. That's the thing I remember the most; how goals brought joy and displays of affection that did not by any means come naturally. In short, Dad and I bonded at Manchester City football club. 

There are other memories of that period which seem typically Manchester City. Where else would you be distracted from the game by an escaped Pelican perched on the Platt Lane Stand roof? 'Bloody Hell, it's a Pelican' said Dad, to the puzzlement of those around us. Where else would you watch both sets of players trying to coax a Golden Retriever off the pitch for ten minutes during a match? 

Sadly , as the 1970.s ended, those moments of joy and hugs became fewer. Goals for decreased and goals against increased. Dad became disillusioned with it all and it was inevitable that he decided not to renew our season ticket after our 1983 relegation. Oddly, I still went for a while on my own, a solitary teenager suffering in silence. Wembley 1981 remains an unforgettable experience, despite the inevitable tears.

Dad is the reason I support Manchester City. Time spent with your parents is precious. For so many men, football enables them to connect emotionally with their son, with their father. They can't always do that within the walls of a small terraced house. Shared affinity, shared experience, shared despair. Shared joy.