Stage Six Fan
Stage six football
A good friend of mine, and fellow lifelong St Mirren supporter, Bill Leckie, wrote a beautiful homage to being a fan, back in the day. It still stands true today. Bill contends that on the journey from cradle to grave there are seven distinct stages of being a football fan. From the childish wonder of going to your first game as a child to the joy of rediscovering football in later life.
My Dad undertook his obligation of starting me at Stage One (home to Stenhousemuir, c1972 if you ask).
I now realise that in a blink of an eye, I have raced through the stages and emerged at Stage Six. This being the one where you lose your mojo for it, no longer having the season ticket, no longer making the fortnightly pilgrimage. Its not that I have given up on them, that is a curse you cannot escape from. Its not VAR, hairbands, the penalty laws, or pyrotechnics that have led to my disillusion. Its just that without having Dad as a wingman, its hard to find the motivational spark.
When Dad retired, he entered the mythical Stage Seven, arguably the most special of them all. Overnight he became one of the most dedicated followers. No matter the weather, or our form, he would be the one that would drag us to the games. His timekeeping was legendary bad, generally appearing fifteen minutes late. ‘Nothing ever happens early, son’, was his mantra. My response of ‘ would you buy a loaf of bread, and throw away the first four slices’ was broadly ignored.
He was old school Gallowhill. Always wore a tie to the game, his scarf was always silk, matched with a bewildering array of hats. We sat together, through thick and thin for fifteen years. He would always comically mis-pronounce players names. Of an age that didn’t understand political correctness, so referred to players with their physical appearance. He refused to believe that there was any player greater than Davie Lapsley. If only he knew what a GOAT was.
I have two special memories that will stay with me forever.
In 2013 our little club won the League Cup for the first time in our history. Dad almost didn’t make it as he was racked with pain, from having three knee replacements (yes, only he could have three). The club kindly organised a car park pass that allowed him to get to the front door. Right at the critical moment, a weak bladder meant he had to hobble off up the steep stairway. It felt like ages, and I was anxious when suddenly we scored the decisive third goal. Turning around amongst the crazy bedlam, I caught sight of him at the top of the stairs. The sun was lighting him up from behind, two crutches aloft, celebrating wildly.
Then in 2018, we won promotion back to the top league. As the final whistle thankfully blew, exuberant fans swarmed on to the pitch. Here was me, a fifty-two-year-old man invading the pitch. On turning round, I realised that the octogenarian had followed me on to the pitch. I have some mad footage on YouTube of him on the pitch, doffing his cap to everyone, as if he was taking the plaudits as much as the team.
His final season was difficult as cancer came calling. He watched his final game on an I pad in his hospital bed, asleep before the end, fortunately missing us concede a late goal.
The first game back without him was emotional. His favourite scarfs were draped across his seats. All the people around us who we knew, but we didn’t know, if that makes sense offered their sympathy. On the last day of the season, as his name briefly appeared on the big screen, the old fella next to me asked if I would renew my season ticket. I said I don’t know, to which he replied what would the old boy have wanted.
So, I renewed and went back for the next season, but it just wasn’t the same.
I am blessed to have had that time with Dad, but I have reluctantly resigned myself to now entering Stage Six.
I still keenly follow the teams results and go to the occasional game. I am ready and prepared if I am ever lucky enough to have a Grandchild in the future. Then I will join them at the beginning of Stage One and get to enter Stage Seven. I am building up that collection of hats and scarfs in advance.
COYS
PS Since writing this, I shared it with a new father, Ross Browning who informs me of another level that I had not even considered. Its called minus one. When the totally devoted play their clubs tunes to the baby in the womb, you got to admire the dedication.
John Gemmell April 2023