Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby

Author:Nick Hornby [Hornby, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3, pdf
Tags: Autobiography, General, Biography & Autobiography, Biography, Literary, Scottish, Personal Memoirs, Literary Criticism, Historical, 20th Century, Sports & Recreation, Sports, Nick, Great Britain, Hornby, Soccer, European, Welsh, Authors, Historical - British, English - 20th century - Biography, English, English authors, Sports - General, Soccer - Great Britain, Irish
ISBN: 9781573226882
Publisher: Penguin Group
Published: 1998-03-01T06:00:00+00:00

MY BROTHER

ARSENAL v TOTTENHAM

30.8.80

There must be many fathers around the country who have experienced the cruellest, most crushing rejection of all: their children have ended up supporting the wrong team. When I contemplate parenthood, something I do more and more as my empathetic biological clock ticks nearer to midnight, I am aware that I am genuinely fearful of this kind of treachery. What would I do if my son or daughter decided, at the age of seven or eight, that Dad was a madman, and that Tottenham or West Ham or Manchester United were the team for them? How would I cope? Would I do the decent parental thing, accept that my days at Highbury were over, and buy a couple of season-tickets at White Hart Lane or Upton Park? Hell, no. I am myself too childish about Arsenal to defer to the whims of a child; I would explain to him or her that, although I would respect any decision of this kind, obviously if they wished to see their team then they would have to take themselves, with their own money, under their own steam. That should wake the little sod up.

I have more than once fantasised about Arsenal playing Tottenham in the Cup Final; in this fantasy my son, as rapt and tense and unhappy as I was when I first supported Arsenal, is a Spurs fan, and as we could not get tickets for Wembley we are watching the game at home on TV. In the last minute the old warhorse Kevin Campbell scores the winner … and I explode into a frenzy of joy, leaping around the sitting room, punching the air, jeering at, jostling, tousling the head of my own traumatized child. I fear that I am capable of this, and therefore the mature, self-knowing thing to do would be to see the vasectomist this afternoon. If my father had been a Swindon Town fan in 1969, on that awful afternoon at Wembley, and had reacted appropriately, we would not have spoken for twenty-two years.

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