I took my son to the National Football Museum in Manchester last week. At least, that’s the cover story because it’s always been me who’s wanted to go, and I finally made it happen. All I needed to do was meet a woman, get married, have a child, wait eight years and bam! I got my wish.
The general rule was: if it was words on a wall, or something displayed in a cabinet, he wasn’t interested. Which is fair enough, really. I can’t say I remember relishing the idea of attending any sort of museum when I was eight.
If there was something there to be kicked, and it was usually a football, then he was all for it. We paid a few extra pounds for him to take three penalties in an interactive area of the building, which measured his accuracy and speed. His fastest shot was 43mph, which felt impressive to me, although he didn’t make it onto the day’s leaderboard.
Those that did could declare their nationality. Now that he’s grasped the difference between club and country, he said he’d represent Zimbabwe. His thinking was, if he’s good enough to play for Grimsby Town one day he’ll likely be good enough to play for Zimbabwe. Shoot for the stars, son.
However, I think he’ll change his mind now and aim for England because, having followed their fortunes (or misfortunes, as it were) through the World Cup, he and his mum just happened to be in Birmingham when Barcelona visited for a friendly, and they managed to get a couple of tickets to the match.
If a 2-2 draw (and a 3-2 win to Brum on penalties) wasn’t exciting enough, he also found out that Jude Bellingham was in the house. Now he can tell his mates at school that he was at the same match as England’s best player, which I personally think it a really cool thing to have in your locker when the kids inevitably descend into petty playground arguments.
It’s immediately better than anything I ever got to boast about when I was at primary school. Back then, I claimed to my mate Simon (who, worryingly, said he fancied his own sister) that I’d designed a school uniform so cool that the head teacher had commissioned me to actually make it, even though I had absolutely no fashion-making skills or experience whatsoever.
I don’t know if Simon ever believed me, but I like to think a part of him did because he countered my claim by claiming he had designed an even cooler school uniform himself and was planning to stitch it. Called himself a mate, but that boy never did want me to thrive.
In the end, neither of us made a thing, although it didn’t stop us making increasingly wilder claims each time we went into school, saying we’d ‘made a leg’ or ‘sewed one of the arms’ of our beautiful luminous green shell suit style uniforms with action purple chevron the previous night.
Oh, the days when you could say absolutely anything and not have to back it up. [Insert joke about politics in 2026]
My son also beat me at Treetop golf* during our day in Manchester, but he’s very quickly reached the point where telling your mates that you beat your dad at something is (pardon the phrase) par for the course. The Bellingham thing is far more impressive.
*Not to be totally outdone, he missed on the bonus 19th hole where I nailed it and won a free round. Not that we were able to cash it in because we had to run for our train. But at least I left with something to celebrate.