Authors: Calvin Wade
“
If COMPLIANT LAD had a longer neck, our family would all
be sunning it up in Barbados now
”
.
My Dad wasn
’
t a bad man. He was, in many ways, a good one, but
he loved his horse racing and unfortunately, too often, he put his own
vice before his family. Even more unfortunate for me was that I later
discovered gambling was a genetic affliction.
In 1984, my mother decided enough was enough and issued an
ultimatum,
“
the horses or me
”
. I
’
m sure if it had been a straight choice,
he
’
d have probably packed his bags and headed off to watch the 2.10
from Haydock in peace, but the
“
me
”
included four children he loved
dearly. He may not have made a huge amount of time for us, but
there was no doubting he loved us dear
ly so from that day forward he
stopped gambling, well, so my mother thought, anyway! In actual
fact, all he did was gamble far more discreetly than he had ever done
before! He spent more time at home, we did more as a family, Peter
O
’
Sullevans commentaries stopped echoing around the house every
Saturday afternoon and he learnt to hide his disappointments rather
than share them.
Back in 1978 though, my Dad was still an open and honest gambler. Gambling came first, family second and Bolton Wanderers a close third.
As a child, Dad was apparently a decent inside-half although I don
’
t
recall a single day he kicked a ball with me. I do, however, recall him
being a massive Bolton fan.
“
I promise one day I
’
ll take you and James to Bolton
”
, he used to
pipe up. Even at seven, I knew not to believe him, this man made more
promises than Noel Edmonds made swaps. For those of you too old
or too young to remember, Saturday
morning was Swap Shop time, in
our house it was anyway, as my mother banned Tiswas which was on
the other side, as she deemed it to be
“
too aggressive
”
. James hated that
decision, I wasn
’
t bothered, I preferred Swap Shop! With Swap Shop,
you had to phone Noel Edmonds and Keith Chegwin and tell them
what useless bunch of crap you wanted to swap for something fantastic.
I still remember the phone number. 01-811-8055.
Anyway, Dad made promises all the time that came to nothing.
“
Father Christmas will be bringing Choppers for you and James this year and a bloody great big dolls house for your sisters.
”
He didn
’
t.
“
Jimmy in the office was saying he
’
s just bought his lad a goal with
a net for the garden. I think I
’
ll get one of those for you boys and I promise I
’
ll come out there with you and we
’
ll have a bloody good
kick about
”
.
No kick about, no goal either!
Dad said things. He didn
’
t mean them, he just said them, so even
at that age, I didn
’
t get excited as I knew it meant nothing, unless of
course, the sentence was finished off with a ,
“
’
cos I
’
ve had a win on the
gee-gees!
”
If Dad won on the horses, he was the happiest, most generous man
in the world. When he won, it was like God turned the egg-timer over
and he evolved from a sour-faced grump, infrequently seen, to an all
singing, all dancing, one man cabaret.
Helen, the oldest and wisest of his offspring, deemed it to be his
“
three hour happy window
”
. Good things happened in the
“
happy
window
”
and one Friday he must have nipped into the bookies after
work, fortune must have been on his side, as he arrived home that Friday
evening with three tickets to Bolton Wanderers against Wolverhampton
Wanderers, for Dad, James and I. I remember James asking if it was a
local Wanderers derby!
James wasn
’
t into football much then, nor is he now and at the
time, although I told everyone I was an Evertonian and collected Panini
stickers, I didn
’
t quite understand the older kids obsession with football
either, but the most exciting part of the announcement was that James
and I were going to be spending the whole day with our Dad. Our Dad,
a man who generally focused five minutes of his day towards us, was
going
to focus his whole day on us
well, us and Bolton Wanderers
anyway.
It
’
s more than twenty five years ago now, so my memories of the
day are a little fuzzy. I remember being in Dad
’
s car, me in the front,
James in the back. I remember it was a hilly journey and although it
’
s
only about thirty miles from Ormskirk to Bolton, if that, at the time it
seemed like a huge distance. Dad parked a long way from the ground
and he took it in turns to carry James and I. I remember when I was
aloft, his face felt re-assuredly strong and stubbly. Even on this day of
days though, he wasn
’
t perfect. He stopped at a sweet shop and bought
James and I some
“
Spangles
”
, then told us to wait outside another shop,
a smoky shop, because children weren
’
t allowed in.
“
I
’
ll just be five minutes
”
, he promised.
James and I talked. It was obvious to us that this was one of those
“
bookies
”
that Helen and Caroline had warned us about. The place
where Dad
’
s bad moods came from. We stood there, crunching our
Spangles and pining for our father like a pair of abandoned toddlers.
We knew that his mood for the day would be determined by the five
minutes spent in this shop. Smacks and hugs were on the line with only
one winner. Thankfully for James and I, Dad emerged from that bookies
with a grin the size of Burnden Park itself, his lucky streak had extended
into a second day and he proudly announced ,
“
Today has just paid for itself!!
”
I didn
’
t understand exactly what that meant. Today was Saturday.
How could Saturday pay for itself? He must have won money but what
did that mean? I didn
’
t toy with the question for too long though, as
Dad was so obviously happy, I just wallowed in his positivity. Me, my
Dad and my brother were going to a real football match and didn
’
t it
just feel great!
I didn
’
t know or care back then, that lucky streaks don
’
t last. I was
na
ï
ve to the fact that every gambler ha
s a lucky streak at some point
or other, but more often than not it is followed by an unlucky streak
that lasts longer and costs more. Is gambling more or less harmful
than smoking? It
’
s hard to say. Ultimately, I suppose it depends on the
individual, but they are both slow destroyers. Smoking slowly murders
your vital organs whilst gambling attacks the brain, breaks down your
self-control and sucks out your spirit. I wish I had known that back
then. If only! Back then all I knew was that we were on the crest of a wave and I headed off to the match with a newly acquired black and
white scarf and a rattle, full of the joys of spring.
Bolton were in Division Two back then. Division Two was a
different league then to what it is now. There were no Premierships and
Championships back in those days, just Divisions One, Two, Three and
Four. Simple! Bolton, I think,
were near the top of the league and Wolves
were the top, so it was a promotion battle. Bolton scored twice but they
were both disallowed, whilst Wolves scored once and it counted, so that
was that. Wolves won 1-0. I thought it was fantastic. Twenty thousand excited people captivated by the actions of twenty two. I wanted to go
again and again.
Dad took footballing defeat better than horse racing defeats,
probably because there was no money involved and I remember the
three of us walking back to the car wit
h Dad imploring us to tell the
k
ids at school on Monday that we had been to the mighty Burnden
Park. I did tell them, but we lived in Aughton, a village twelve miles
from Liverpool and a mile from Merseyside so near enough everyone
supported Liverpool,
who at the time were European Cup holders, with a smattering of Evertonians for good measure, so the boys were about
as interested in Burnden Park as I was in kissing Faye Williams (dog
breath).
That Saturday was a turning point for me though. As my Dad
twiddled the knob on his car radio, trying to get a good enough reception
to pick up the racing results, I knew, as well as a seven year old could
know, that my Dad was an unreliable sort. I knew this was a one-off
and no matter how much I begged him, he would not be taking me to
football matches every other weekend. What I also worked out on that
car journey home, was where the window of opportunity could be found
and the following morning I clambered through it.
By eight o
’
clock that Sunday morning, I was ful
ly
dressed and
ready to go out. I skipped five doors along to my Nan and Grand
d
ads
house to recount the story of the previous day. They were my Mother
’
s
parents and were not my Father
’
s biggest fans, so the fact that my Dad
had clambered up off his big fat arse to take us, was a shock to their
systems. I didn
’
t miss a detail, carefully dropping the bait, telling them
how great Burnden Park was and how I loved every minute of the whole
experience.
“
Burnden Park
, great?
”
my Grandad scoffed,
“
wait until you see Goodison!
”
“
But my Dad won
’
t take me to Goodison, Granddad, he supports
Bolton not Everton
”
.
“
Of course he won
’
t Richard, but I will! Next season you and I and
your brother if he
’
s interested, are all going to have season tickets at
Goodison Park!
”
For the following four years everything revolved around football. I
started playing for cubs, (Aughton St Michaels 40
th
Ormskirk pack -
“
Tuesdays
”
- there were also 40
th
Ormskirk
“
Wednesdays
”
, the rivalry
was fierce!) and the school team and every other Saturday, Granddad and
I went to the Everton match. James was offered the opportunity too, but
he turned it down. James was into other things such as Lego, Meccano
and as he grew older, Dungeons and Dragons. I hated all of them with
a passion. He was the practical one, I was the sporty one.
My lifelong love affair with Everton Football club started to gather
pace in 1978 and over the following four years it became so strong, girls
were not given a second thought. Then, in 1982, things changed. Rachel
Cookson, seemingly overnight, grew the most fantastic pair of breasts I
had ever seen in my entire life and football, for a while anyway, became
a secondary passion!