I was by the pool in Higuerote, Venezuela, taking a rare weekend off from football; from watching, covering it, working within it, or – frankly – caring for it. But this was my holiday reading in the rare moments both my young children were occupied without my involvement. Still, I had to snatch a look at the Saints score. We’d surely be losing. We’re bottom of the table with a caretaker manager and playing away to Chelsea.
Google says we’re 0-1 up thanks to yet another Ward-Prowse freekick. The game is an hour in. I’m immediately sucked back into caring, despite finding it increasingly hard to feel connected to Southampton Football Club since life meant I could no longer commit to a season ticket, Claude Puel drained the enjoyment out of watching, years of slow decay and players who came and went without feeling for the shirt followed, and the 2022/23 season looked finally like the one that would sedate us into the Championship.
I check my phone every ten minutes for the next half an hour. At 90+4, we’re still 0-1 up and I wait for the “FT” to appear next to the scoreline. It doesn’t. My internet signal is so weak, I can’t access information about the game in any other way. It gets to 90+11 and the game is still showing as in play. From Venezuela back to Southampton, I call my dad. I know he’ll be watching.
“What’s going on?! Have we won?! Google says 90+12!”
“It’s just ended, son. We won. There was a serious injury, but it’s over. We played so well.”
Football kept the relationship with my father going when little else was. For a while in my midteens, when we barely spoke, we still shared a pitch for 90 minutes. It could be the only time I spent with him all week, the only time we’d talk, but it tied together my early teens of accustoming to his departure from the family and repeated fallings out to my early 20s where we began a friendship and mutual respect that has become far more functional than our father-son relationship (in the conventional sense) ever was.
It’s one of many reasons I can’t entertain football as just a game or a pick-up entertainment. It was the anchor in a stormy time of my life and the ever present bedrock to one of the most important relationships I have.
This book is an ode to that, written by an ultimately devoted son who struggled to find a connection and understand his father without football, full of admiration for someone who seemed inaccessible to a small boy, growing teenager, and then distant as an adult in his own right.
It would standalone as a vignette of football and it’s history in the north east but it would love a powerfully personal narrative if it were to do so, and it’s the narrative, like the week around the 90 minutes, that makes this book and football itself special.
Beginning with stories his father told him of football before the author was born and ending with the Manchester United-Barcelona Champions League Final long after his father passed, Hamilton weaves a basic biography of his father with an introspective autobiography of his younger self with the football greats he and his father encountered, as fans, in chance meetings, and then in Hamilton’s own professional life.
This resonated with me, which will always result in me rating a book higher, but it is rich in quality, imagery, and prose regardless. A faultless book, for me.