A Social Experiment

When I was a young chap, around 6 or 7 years old, I used to be sat in the classroom waiting for the bell to ring to signal the end of school. I had no idea who was picking me up – whether it was my mum, or whether it was my friend’s mum. There was a big difference. As my cheeky ironing comment and picture on Facebook this week will hopefully have implied, I have a sensational relationship with my mum – sensational enough to get away with that kind of crap - and I love her dearly. However, I usually prayed for Mrs Elwood to be picking me up.  You see, Mrs Elwood, was the gem of a mother who used to pick her son up and bring him some sweets and a drink when he left the classroom. She was kind enough to bring something for me when she was collecting us, and for sweet-tooth Bobby Junior, that was often the centre of my thoughts for the last couple of hours at school.

Cash was not particularly easy to come by at our house. That is not a sob story and I actually do not think any of the four of us would change anything. There were tough moments, but it made us stronger, and who we are today. There was no shortage of love nor laughs. Of course, being one of the few kids in school not to have a Sega or Nintendo, or a sweet-laden angel for a mother picking us up from school was not easy to take sometimes. I watched in envy at so many of my classmates with their bag of crisps and Coke, or struggled to talk about a computer game I had only ever played at my friend’s house. I would pester my mum for a pair of Nike trainers rather than no-name generic white trainers. The response was short and swift. Clean the car, iron the clothes, tickle my feet (that is no joke!)…and when we were older, it meant getting a paper round and then a job. Earning a living sucked between the ages of 8-14.

It started with paper rounds, and it moved on to working in restaurant kitchens with my dad, where I washed the pots for £15 a night. I wanted to go on a school trip to Dortmund when I was 14? I was paying for it myself. I was washing pots and plates in a frenzy at weekends to raise the money and when I did, I found the satisfaction from having earned it, so much better than having it given to me. In fairness, I should add that part of that motivation also came from my discovery of German girls. I went to Dortmund five times and paid for each one myself.

As I got older, money gradually became less difficult to come by and I figured that the harder I work, the more money I would earn. That was not strictly true, but it helped. Once I was able to buy an ipad, iphone, nice clothes and whatever else that I could never afford, that effect pretty quickly rubbed off. Perhaps it is a sign of getting older, but I sense a transition in how I spend my time and my money. I will not attribute getting older with becoming more mature – there’s a difference. I appreciate that swanning off to Vegas for a big fight is not necessarily mature or sensible at times. However, it is the moments that attract me now, not the material.

Fast forward to next Thursday and I am going to Old Trafford to watch the first day of England v Australia with my Dad, Uncs and Cousin. We’re getting dropped off and picked up so nobody has to worry about driving, and needless to say it is going to be a filthy day of drinking, and having a blast with the Aussies. You may tell that I am looking forward to it somewhat. When I’m a grey-haired (I’m begging for grey over baldness!) old chap sat in a rocking chair jabbering on about the old days, these will be the kind of stories I will recount to anybody who will listen. I will not be chatting about the day I bought an iPad mini or this great Sony Vaio that can make do everything but make toast.

So, here comes the social experiment. I have another four tickets to the Ashes at Old Trafford on Sunday, August 4^th and I will not be going. I want them to go to a good home and I do not want any money for them. I want them to go to folks who typically may not be able to go to something like this. I want them to go to folks who perhaps do not get to spend enough time together, or who may not have had or been able to share enough ‘moments’ recently. I don’t want a begging letter. If you ask me for them, I will trust that the reasons and rationale are genuine, and hopefully you’re doing a good turn for somebody who perhaps deserves one. If I receive a million requests, I’ll just send them to somebody randomly so don’t be offended if you do not get them. If it rains, don’t blame me. You’ll have to pay for your own travel, so consider that and do your research first. All I ask is that they are not wasted and they go to a really good home. My guess/hope is that this day at Old Trafford will stick in your memory longer than the cash equivalent or any gadget I could give you. And in fairness, if you read my blog, and are still reading the last paragraph, you deserve a treat.

Sporting Roots

Anybody who vaguely knows me, knows that I am particularly passionate about sport. Since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I have been a staunch Everton fan and most folks who cross my path are aware of this. Whether you went to school with me and no doubt abused me frequently, somebody I worked with and no doubt abused me, or you’re a family member or friend and have no doubt abused me, you’ll know who my team is and you will know how passionate I am about them despite all the abuse and poor performances. Randomly, two people recently called me a glory supporter – not many Evertonians can be accused of that, but it is true. I started supporting them in the mid-eighties when they were at the peak of European football. It’s been downhill ever since.

Among my first memories was Diego Maradona in 1986 and I was instantly fixated with him and the game. The truth is that it was always inevitable that I would work in sport, study sport, love watching sport, read about sport, live sport. From as early as I can remember, sport was on our television. It could have been tennis, it could have been NFL, you name it, we watched it. It was the same 25 years ago, and it is just as prevalent now if you show up at my parents’ house. Dad worked evenings and weekends, so we spent a lot of time growing up under the auspices of my mum – thankfully for Junior Bobby, Kath loved watching sports and it all grew from there.

As an eight-year-old, I can vividly recall getting a book for my birthday on the rules of NFL, which I recited and learned as I watched the game. Watching was not always possible – bed times as a child can be terribly restrictive especially when you’ve never been a great sleeper and I would listen to the radio coverage of the NFL quietly in my room – half listening to the radio and half listening for the creeks of the staircase. Of course, that was assuming my sister didn’t grass me up.

Dad has always enjoyed watching sports but for a slightly different reason. If he has a bet on a snail race and it is televised, he’ll be flicking the channels trying to find coverage. That is no doubt why I always had an attraction to data and betting, even if I fell into my role with Smartodds.

When HJ lived in Calgary and I spent a lot of time over there, I heard about this new device which allowed you to watch television over the internet if you had it connected to a cable/sky box and the internet. The Slingbox was to become a lifesaver on my travels. I picked one up in Calgary, took it back to the UK and connected it to mum and dad’s television. I had hit the jackpot. The issue with the Canadian box in the UK was that one feature did not work – the remote control – so for a good few years, if I wanted to watch something, I would call or text my folks asking them to change channel. They bought me a UK one last year and I can now change it myself – I can only apologise to them and my niece and nephew who are frequently disturbed by Scooby Doo being interrupted by Uncle Rob who wants to watch a random cricket game even though I am a ninety minute flight away. No wonder kids believe in magic.

I love my parents for many reasons and in many ways, but their love of sport and how it rubbed off on to me, along with a number of other characteristics goes a long way to explaining me. A good friend of ours often reminds me of how he watched the Stanley Cup Final with my mum from a hotel in Cologne as I drifted asleep for a period and Mum, watching at home, and him watching on my laptop via the slingbox, stayed the course at 4am. How many parents stay up til 4am to watch a Hockey match? HJ is in Innsbruck this week and I have stayed up til 3.30-4am every night watching Hockey or NFL. So if you wonder why I may be a little abnormal in doing so, look no further than my Mum.

It is funny how those kind of Stanley Cup moments stay with you and always will. In the last few years, I’ve attended a considerable number of sporting events, and I have tried wherever possible to take my parents to them. Christmas and Birthday presents are never easy these days – it’s fair to say that the culture nowadays is that we buy something if we need it. Given that they are sport fans, I like to give them ‘moments’ and ‘memories’ as gifts. Maybe it is an excuse for me to go also, I won’t lie! But more than anything, it’s my way of thanking them for instilling my passion for sport. I’m banking on neither of them reading this blog, but I’m looking forward to the next one I have lined up if I can somehow pull it off.