Hooliganism Begins at Home
Did I mention I took my elder son to his first Toronto FC match the other day? It was to be the last of the season and the little feller had been pestering me about seeing a match for months already. Worried that he might put a cramp into my usual drinking ‘n’ braying routine, I had been holding off until he would reach an age of maturity. Given that I haven’t achieved such heights myself and, thinking that he might be useful for sneaking flares into the stadium, I relented and promised a trip to the supporters’ section straight away.
Before we could leave the house, I made a lot of threats about how children who don’t nap don’t get to see matches and how telling mom about what I do at the field will result in a future without allowances, no visits from Santa Claus, and no insulin for those who develop juvenile diabetes. Once my pockets were full of projectiles and mini-bar stock, I said it was time to go, only to be horrified by Mrs. thehandoftamm’s insistence on wrapping the dude up in hats, gloves, winter boots, parkas and the lot –despite the fact that it was 20 degrees and sunny out. The first half was already starting and I rationalized that any abuse he took for being overdressed would be offset by the extra padding should a trampling begin in the stands.
We arrived to the stadium and heard the sure cheers that greet TFC goals from a few hundred yards away. The atmosphere was charged, this being the last chance to make noise for ’08, and I cringed to hear another chorus of cheers as we were trying to make our way under the stands to our seats. We’d missed another one! If this kindergartener walked any faster I would have been there for both. That allowance might still be suspended, I thought.
Arriving at our seats, we were greeted like the coolest 3-year-old in Toronto and his coolest dad for bringing him into the heart of the Inappropriate Zone. Promises were made from all around that the language would be toned down for the little lad’s benefit and don’t you be surprised that, while I’m sure they all meant to stand by their words, the sailor talk was resumed in less than a minute. It was Effing this and Blinding that and dad was already imagining what road to take when the inevitable repetition came at home. Thinking I could buy his silence with chocolate milk and a bag of popcorn, I gave the chappie a bit of money and told him he could keep the change if he brought me a beer on his way back to the stands…
Pretty soon we were into second half action and already the wee man was acting like a supporter from back in tha day. He was yelling out that the referee was a wanker and the Chicago defenders were shite and that a particularly careless challenge was a horror tackle. I told him to knock off the pseudo-British yobbo talk so prevalent in our wannabes section and to get me another frosty mug.
The match ended well, 3-2 to the good and we thanked TFC for another entertaining season. We’re privileged to have somewhere to go for $12.75 pints on Saturday afternoons, no? Boy-o and I made our way back to the car, where he fell asleep for the ride home, happy that he’d taken in his first football match. He later confessed that it was superior to the Blue Jays game his mother had taken him to last month and not only because he learned all sorts of new euphemisms for describing people’s privates. Father has promised more of same to come next season.
October 22nd, 2008 at 4:57 pm
Happy birthday to thehandoftamm.