Sunday 20 June 2010

Dad, there's something I need to tell you ....


The start of the World Cup, coupled with an Auntie and Uncle of mine moving to Brighton has had me thinking about a life changing moment of my own. A moment I finally admitted my true self to my father.

Before I did some research I was under the impression that Brighton is a place to move if you’re retired, a hippy, homosexual, or a combination of the previous. Some light reading soon revealed my ignorance; some students also move to Brighton, although they don’t pay taxes so I’m not too sure if they count.


Time in University, Sussex or otherwise, is similar to moving to Brighton, in that it is often a time when homosexuals can finally be themselves and live true to their hearts. They can finally go about their daily lives around liberal people, free(r) from bigots and self enforced celibate child abusing priests telling them that their desires are unnatural.

I have empathy for such a situation having been through a similar time of denial myself.

When I was still a primary school student I was an Oldham Athletic fan; a small team for my American readers, with an average attendance of around 5,000. I went with my dad most weeks. I talked the talk to my fellow fans, and even read the local paper to keep up to date with players. I was a committed fan; a signed ball in my room is proof of that, but all the while something didn’t feel quite right.

Cheering goals never came naturally; the appointment of a new fitness coach didn’t have me on forums. I just didn’t feel like other Oldham fans. I was unhappy and unfulfilled.

And then came Arsenal. As a 13 year old I found myself awake late one Saturday night watching Match of the Day. I didn’t need to watch it. As an Oldham fan I should have been indifferent as the news of an unknown Frenchman taking over a Premiership team was announced.

But little did I know how Arsene Wenger would come to change my life completely. Over the next few weeks I started watching MOTD in secret, with my TV turned down. I was thrilled at last. I was experiencing the pleasure the other boys got when they talked about Oldham.

Watching Arsenal was like a dream, like nothing I’d ever seen before. The ball was passed around on the floor. They didn’t kick people. They were playing football. I’d found myself, but it would be years for me to come to terms with it.

Right into my 20s I watched the Gunners in secret, making games I did see look like a coincidence. I’d go to Arsenal friendly bars, and then ignore the people I’d watched games with if I saw them on the street. If I watched Arsenal in a regular pub I’d put my jumping up when they scored as cramp, shouts of yes were because of a polite form of tourettes; anything to avoid people knowing I wasn’t really an Oldham fan.

Something had to give. I was living a lie, and lying to those closest to me didn’t sit comfortably. I began to confess to my friends. I told myself in the mirror I was an Arsenal fan, then it was friends who didn’t care about football. A trial run of coming out. It felt like a weight had been lifted every time I said the words “I’m an Arsenal fan.”

Eventually I let thing slip, I’d argue the qualities of Pascal Cygan with such gusto that people knew something was wrong.

Some guessed, some I told and some simply asked me outright. Soon there was nobody that didn’t know. Nobody except my father.

I told him over and over again in my mind, but each time it came to doing it in person I bottled it. I was too choked with emotion that I just ended up asking him the time. He was never quite sure why this was ‘big news,’ nevertheless I couldn’t come out. I didn’t want to upset him.

Then came a charity hike with friends. My dad was the driver, taking us to various mountains to climb, all in the aid of a good cause. The discussion inevitably turned to football, at which point a member of the group, that I didn’t know as well, asked that question:

“Who do you support Lewis?” The friends that knew looked around uncomfortably, twiddling thumbs, silently whistling, doing anything to avoid eye contact. One friend even blinded himself with a penknife just to make sure.

I waited one second....two seconds....three seconds. My dad turned and looked at me. I could see it in his eyes ‘what’s the rush son? It’s an easy question.’ I couldn’t do it anymore.

“Arsenal.” It shot out like a bullet. I’d confessed. I turned to look at my father. The man who made me, who would look to me to pass on the family name. He just smiled and turned around to look at the road and switch the radio to five live; the Arsenal game. Turned out I had no reason to worry after all. I sighed as he began to talk:

“Now, you know who was a great defender? Pascal Cygan.”