The glory of sport is that, even in the moments of greatest triumph, it is filled with sadness. There is the pain of seeing another's success ââ¬â there can't be too many Liverpool fans feeling admiration for a job well done by Sir Alex Ferguson this week. There's the melancholy of the final bow ââ¬â the farewell to Brian Clough at the City Ground in 1993 outlasting Forest's relegation that season in the memory. And there's personal sadness, for sport is so bound up in its followers' lives and identities that matches and memories become entwined. I cried a little bit after Queens Park Rangers were confirmed as League champions. Lots of people were crying, naturally, for lots of different reasons. My eyes pricked for missing my father, who died 19 years ago, and who wasn't even a QPR supporter. My first game at Loftus Road was in spring 1978. QPR lost 5-1 to Everton, with Bob Latchford scoring four (it was the season he scored 30, and the Daily Express gave him a ã10,000 prize for the feat). Neither Dad nor I supported QPR that day: I cheered for Everton, because my family came from the north and routinely backed the more northerly team in my early games. We lived out near Slough and would travel in to London several times a season ââ¬â to Loftus Road most often, but also to Highbury, Stamford Bridge, Upton Park, Selhurst Park and White Hart Lane. This last was dad's favourite destination. Like many who remembered Bill Nicolson's double-winning side, he had a soft spot for Spurs, and he adored watching Glenn Hoddle, Ossie Ardiles and Ricky Villa. "All they do is run around in circles," he said. "But they do it beautifully." These past 18 months or so, I've been taking my son to Loftus Road. I was a season-ticket holder there through the 90s, finally giving up my seat when Rangers were relegated to the third tier in 2001. We'd had our first child, I was working Saturday mornings, and I realised I hadn't actually enjoyed a game for several years: I couldn't justify the time or expense anymore. But when, at six, my son realised football was a passport to playground popularity, I decided to renew my acquaintance with QPR. Last season was a disaster, of course. This season's been quite the opposite. But the more it progressed, the more happiness spread around W12, the more I thought about Dad. I wished he were still with us, that I could have bought him a season ticket to see his grandson learning about supporting a team. I wish, given his feelings about Hoddle, Ardiles and Villa, that he could have seen Adel Taarabt, who'd have made him guffaw with his outrageousness. I wish we could have chewed over the game afterwards. I wish he could have seen my son walking though London Bridge station after the 2-1 win at Selhurst Park in the autumn, arms aloft, alone in singing that Rangers are by far the finest team the world has ever seen. I remembered the past: seeing France play England at Wembley in the early 90s, looking forward to phoning Dad afterwards to see what he thought of Jean-Pierre Papin, then remembering it was a phone call I could no longer make; the pair of us on holiday in 1983 during a summer when my mother and sister were both tied up with education, discussing whether Bryan Robson was a world-class player (dad was a quiet man: that conversation and one about the role of anti-heroes in Woody Allen films are just about the only conversations, as opposed to exchanges of words, that I can remember us having). I'm sure there were many others with similar feelings in Shepherd's Bush last week ââ¬â people from longstanding QPR families whose loved ones hadn't lived to see the team return to the top flight, doubtless. And that's the wonder of football, of all sport: that it's not a substitute for life, it's part of life. It is tied up inextricably with the truest parts of us all.
A good read, im lucky enough to still have my dad who took me to Loftus Road as a six year old and fifty one years later the chance to phone him when in South Africa Road with the news came that we were back was one of the greatest pleasures i could have had,we cried together and felt like we did when i was 12 at wembley in 67 where we cried when Mark Lazarus scored the winner,we watch that game and still enjoy 44 years later will never forget March 4 1967. Maybe we will see heights again.
Let's put an alternative spin on this theme. Never had a dad (justifies one of the names I get called) and once hooked often attended LR alone (ahhhhh!). Worse still, I have a great son but despite having come with me to a few Rs games over the years... he supports Palace! Now that really does make me cry. Still, got him back by nauseating him and his mum with my constant 'URss' all year! (I blame the parents!!)
Sorry folks: here we go again, remember this one Peter? La la la la Lazarus (all the same note except the 'ar us' bit at the end)!
Yeah mate! And we ain't have we? Rangers gifted twin wingers for our younger comrades. Identical bar the fact that one (Ian) was right footed and the other (Roger) was left footed. Both brilliant imo.
Great article, bought a lump to my throat when Adel lifted that trophy, and I'm a few thousand miles away (just like goldcoast)! It's just remembering all those great players I watched through the eighties and nineties, Stainrod, Allen and Fillery right through to Sir Les and Wilkins and then the pure frustration of seeing Richard Thompson asset strip us the demise and ultimately watching sh**e like Steve Morrow and Karl Ready run around like headless chickens. But now, "RANGERS ARE BACK, RANGERS ARE BACK, HELLO HELLO!", and what a wonderful feeling that is!
