An apology to my son

Article by Andrew Binns

I grew up in Halifax, one of the darkest town in Yorkshire in the 80s. When I was four my Dad told me to choose a team, with the caveat that I’d have to stick with them for the rest of my life. I chose Tottenham Hotspur. I can’t remember why. I’d like to think it was the beautiful football Glenn Hoddle epitomised, or the winning mentality that Ossie and Ricky brought to the club. In reality, it was probably because the name sounded cool to a 4 year old. But whatever the reason there was one thing I was certain of even at that age. It would never be Liverpool.

Now, Halifax is a funny town. It has a mix of Leeds United fans (the uneducated), Manchester United fans (the glory hunters), Liverpool fans (the living in the past), Sheffield Wednesday (the ‘better support a Northern team’ group) and Halifax Town fans (the ‘support your home team’ brigade). But it also has a lot of Tottenham fans. And over the years I met many of these Northern Spurs fans. In the mid 90s we went to every game for a few seasons. Tottenham even put a coach on for us. It was great fun and some of my best friends are from that group. I bore witness to Spurs’ evolution as we progressed from a poor team flirting with relegation to an average team challenging for a UEFA cup spot to a top 4 club with title and Champions League aspirations. And all the while I was joined in this adventure by 50 or so of my fellow Northern Spurs. Win or lose, we’d have fun, we’d drink, we’d travel all over Europe and we loved following Spurs.

And then I moved to Liverpool. A city with over a million people who all support Liverpool or Everton. No other club gets a look in. I was alone in my love of the mighty Spurs. Alone in a city where red or blue tinted glasses were worn by everyone. And I mean everyone. To be a Spurs fan in Liverpool is truly to know isolation and loneliness. A football castaway.

And then my son was born. Born the night we claimed our spot in the Champions League with a 1-0 win over City. 5.5.10 is a date synonymous with two great events – my son, Jamie being born and Peter Crouch scoring to send us into the dream world of the Champions League. Due to my Mrs’s delirious post giving birth state I got to pick Jamie’s middle name and decided that the goal scorer that night would be honoured with the gift of Jamie’s middle name. Thank God, Benoit Assou-Ekotto missed a sitter. Jamie Peter Binns was chosen.

Along with the standard Facebook announcement that Jamie had been born I claimed his football soul on behalf of Spurs; thus ensuring no Scouse friend or relative would try and push Liverpool or Everton on to him.

Over the years I’ve introduced Jamie to the fact he is a Spurs fan. The kits I’ve bought from Spurs Online Store have been worn with pride. I was so happy that in a football obsessed city Jamie would always reply to the ubiquitous ‘which team do you support’ question with ‘Spurs’.

A few months ago he started football training and for his first session he wore his brand new Spurs kit. He came up to me after the session, tired, bruised, sweaty and muddy. I was so proud. He looked up at me and said ‘Daddy, can I wear a Barcelona kit next week. All the kids laughed at me for being a Spurs fan’.

No son. No you can’t.

So that’s why I feel I need to apologise to my son. He’s in for lifetime of pain, embarrassment and heartbreak. The life of a Spurs fan is not an easy one. But it’s one Jamie will endure.

© e-Media Group 2016 All rights reserved no part of this document or this website may be reproduced without consent of @e_media_group

Share on Google Plus