The Hillians Have Eyes
Saturday afternoon at the football with the kids requires allowing them to do what *they* want to do.
“Yaaaaay! Football!”
Hmmm. I’m eyeing the kids with a degree of suspicion, this morning. Burgess Hill vs East Grinstead Town in Division One South East of the Isthmian League is only going to raise the blood pressure of a few hundred people across this entire planet, but then again these two really do have a most peculiar relationship with football.
They do understand that it kind of helps to want one team to win more than the other, though they still have no understanding of which team you might want to win. This comes in spite of the fact that I had the older one in home and away Spurs baby-gros by the time he was about three months old (which I still have, one of the few items of baby memorabilia that I chose to keep - look, 2015/16 was a decent Spurs team, okay?), though I can’t fault his discernment in this respect; spare yourself a life of low-level trauma while you can, kiddo.
They both know who both Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi are, but only because “they’re the most famous footballers”. Neither of them have seen them do anything on a football pitch, who they play for, or and I ain’t going to be encouraging that sort of hero worship by showing them YouTube compilations.
They have both been to quite a few football matches, but the amount of actual football that they’ve watched has been next to zero. The first time I took older kid to see Worthing play, we sat in the stand he jumped out of his seat, looking around and smiling because he’d somehow convinced himself that everyone was cheering him. Never lose that confidence, kid.
What they definitely associate with football is chips and sugary drinks. And I’m not going to get in the way of that. I’ve written on these pages before about how going to the football is my opportunity to empty my head, get a but of fresh air, traipse around a bit, have a pint (or even two, if I’m feeling rakish), take some photos for you lot, and generally cast off the shackles of the week. I don’t feel that should be any different for them, if they’re with me.
And they prefer a bit of open space, at a match. The more rigid a ground is in terms of what they can explore, the more bored they get. They’re laser-focused on spotting any playgrounds that happen to be nearby, and should they do so I have to concede that if we’re going to spend a couple of hours in my playground, then I should definitely make some time for theirs as well.
It has to be said that I don’t do this as often as I’d like to. I have the kids Monday to Friday and my ex-wife has them on Saturdays and Sundays. Being nine and six, they’re still too young for Tuesday night matches (certainly on school nights), so I really do only seldom ever get the opportunity to go to matches with them.
Maybe they’ll get into it in a more ‘conventional’ sense when they get older, maybe they won’t. It’s their call, and I’m only really good with them doing what they want, rather than sharing this interest with me, especially in the way I do. For now, I please myself with the obvious truth that really, they just love spending time with their dad.
Curiously, they have next to no interest in the game as a televised spectacle whatsoever. Neither of them have either sat and watched a match with me, and they have no interest in playing FIFA on the PlayStation. When they were younger, I picked up a very strong vibe that this was “daddy’s job” off them, as though having a recreational interest in it would be similar to having one in Microsoft Powerpoint.
When they’re older, of course, they’ll be able to make their own decisions over whether they want to come with me at weekends. They know they’ll always be welcome. But for now, their relationship with football remains this pile of disparate… things which they’ve not quite gotten around to forming into anything coherent. And that’s fine. Just you be you. That’s all I ever want.
We’re not actually going to Burgess Hill today, because Burgess Hill Town’s ground is barely a couple of hundred metres from Wivelsfield railway station. To complicate matters further, Wivelsfield railway station is in a part of the area (slightly ominously) known as ‘World’s End’. The fifty minute journey requires two changes, three trains, and the joys of signal failure bringing an unexpected element of jeopardy to it all.
It is a blessedly short walk to the ground, and there are really two things that overwhelm you on that short stroll. Firstly, there’s money, around here. The houses are big and spacious, the cars evidently cost a lot to just run. And secondly, it’s green. I’m already familiar with this from other towns in this neck of the (literal) woods like Haywards Heath and Hassocks, but it’s really taken to its logical extreme here. The scent of autumn hangs heavy and cloying in the air.
Leylands Park is surrounded on two sides by banks of trees. Entering from one end, there’s a bar and a peculiar scaffolding stand at one end, a small low stand running the length of one side, a tiny covered terrace behind the far goal, and a lot of grass. The kids are delighted. As dedicated Minecraft players, they are mildly obsessed with the idea of crafting things from what they can find, and sticks are the perfect material for doing this. Indeed, I’ve had to be fairly militant with a ‘no sticks at home’ policy (which now also applies to rocks that they’ve picked up off the beach, but that’s a whole other story).
But they’re in their element, here. By half-time they’ve collected what might be considered a small armoury. And meanwhile in the background, a football match is taking place. The home team are the favourites to win this. Burgess Hill Town finished in mid-table last season while East Grinstead only finished a couple of places above relegation. And although the visitors have enjoyed an uncharacteristically decent—if inconsistent—start to the season, the home side have the look of a team that could push for a play-off place this season.
It doesn’t take long for them to take the lead, Alex Brewer effectively hawk-tuahing the ball into the corner of the goal from a flicked on corner. It’s an excellent start, but Burgess Hill don’t capitalise upon it. East Grinstead hit the crossbar. The early home enthusiasm starts to dissipate. One or two take the opportunity to head back to the bar and soothe themselves. The small number of away supporters behind the goal seem pretty happy by half-time, even though their team is still behind.
East Grinstead equalise early in the second half and with a degree of good fortune, a header from a corner which bounces over the line off a defender for an own goal. But this time it’s their turn to not capitalise on it and a double substitution ends up swinging things back in Burgess Hill’s direction. Damien Theodore came on a couple of minutes earlier. He is by all accounts 17 years old, and is therefore young enough to be my grandson. He collects the ball on the left, tears inside leaving a couple of defenders in his wake, and sweeps the ball across the goalkeeper and into the corner. I feel old.
This turns out to be the winning goal of the match. If anything, throughout the closing stages it feels as though it’s more likely that they’ll stretch their lead, certainly when Hamish Morrison hits the post with a shot. There hasn’t been a huge amount between these two teams, though Burgess Hill deserved the win. But there are consolations that East Grinstead can take from all this; it certainly doesn’t look like they’re going to be anywhere near a relegation battle this season.
Behind the goal, in the corner, sitting at their crafting bench, the two explorers organise their collection of materials. With doe-eyes, they request to bring a stick each home with them. “Okay”, I acquiesce, “So long as it’s not either of those two half-branches”, gesturing at the two biggest. They pick a smaller one each and put them in my bag.
By the time we get home, the explorers are tired. They’ve got just about enough time to wolf down a plate of pasta, sauce and vegetables before they’re about ready to hit the hay. It’s been a long weekend, and I allow myself a little bit of a lie-in the following morning. I can already hear the familiar sound of them stomping around downstairs mixed with occasional squawks of excitement. I haul my sorry state into some clothes and wander downstairs to grab a cup of coffee. Older kid’s stick is sitting on Breakfast Island on a plate, painted blue for no immediately discernable reason other than that he wanted it to be blue.
Never stop being you, kids.