My grandpa passed away 11 years ago. Time is a great healer but on receiving the news I was devastated. I still remember fondly those trips down to the allotment where I acted as his trowel-wielding assistant and the pound coins he would hand over any time I visited him and my gran on the way home from school. I remember the time he had to be literally carried the few hundred yards home from the local after one too many drams during my dad’s stag do. And, for as long as I can remember, the three of us would spend each and every Saturday during the season following our local junior side Pollok home and away.
Football was always the constant and memories from the terraces are vast. There was his religious singling out of a player to body every season irrespective of whether they were good or bad; there was the Scottish Cup trip to Dunbar where within the space of an hour he had both bought me a pint and also paid me in at the boys’ gate. As his health deteriorated, there was a long away trip to Ellon where, as my dad and I huddled underneath the umbrella in the pouring rain, he had wangled a prime view from the club bar overlooking the action. He was fairly inebriated by the time the final whistle had been blown.
I still have vivd memories of an away trip to face St Cuthbert Wanderers in the “Big Scottish”, Pollok having qualified for the tournament as West Region champions the previous season. There was no supporters’ bus that day, so my old man had volunteered as tribute to drive me, my grandpa and his two mates Raymond and Alan to Kirkcudbright. Having arrived very early and with cool bags full of sandwiches and beer to hand, the four of us promptly got seshed as my dad looked on.
I had known both for a while by this point. Raymond has worn many hats during that time, mainly as bus convener and provider of beetroot, with his autumnal crop often resulting in endless supplies of the stuff being dished out on matchdays to anybody with a free hand. Alan had worked all his days for Rolls Royce and at the time was still working; he’s now retired and is simultaneously known for being both tight and generous in equal measures.
They weren’t the only ones, though. There was Thomson, who would – despite my lesser years – always seek my opinion on the football world around us, particularly pertaining to the club we all followed. Snawheid (I couldn’t tell you his real name to this day) was another and Tommy, a man who into his eighties has a fitness regime that puts mine and countless others to shame. There was a peripheral cast of hundreds more but this was the core, a group of men with a camaraderie that I recognise in me and my peers today.
After my grandpa’s death, and having moved closer to Pollok’s ground, Newlandsfield, I soon found myself joining this brigade for their post-match rituals. The conversation topics would always remain broadly the same with regular appearances from: Pollok/Scotland are shite, the ever increasing cost of a pint, tips for maintaining your allotment or garden and, of course, a round of “mind-that-guy?”. Sure, there was a generational divide, but in football we had a common cause and in my grandpa a common bond and I quickly found myself looking forward to that couple of hours as much as I did the game itself.
Of course, with age comes greater risk and over time, much like my grandpa, names would drift away. Snawheid was the first to go and then Thomson, quite suddenly. There one Saturday afternoon quite happily chatting away with a post-match pint in hand and gone by midweek. I went to his funeral, such was the bond that I had forged with those I now called my friends.
A few years ago Raymond had heart surgery and while he recovered the shock brought an end to his matchday adventures – the idea of standing in the cold, wind and rain now a deterrent that it wasn’t before. I haven’t seen him in years now although there is still the occasional update to confirm he’s doing OK.
I still go to the pub and, as I’ve got older, I’ve become more aware of the role that I can play. I’ll volunteer taxi services for those games that are needed and I’ll ensure I take my fair share of buying the first round or getting the birthday halves in.
There are three of us now, plus my dad when he is able, and the banter remains the same. When Alan got a new girlfriend he was subjected to the same jibes and congratulations any lad gets; and Tommy, having been the only ever Celtic-minded member of the group, is frequently teased for his fandom while nobody has ever let him forget the time he booked a holiday for the same date as Pollok were due to compete in the 2016 Scottish Junior Cup final. I’m not immune, of course, and many a game has been played in attempt to worsen the effects of my hangover from the night before.
Tommy often says that despite being retired Saturday is still Saturday, a day out with the boys. On away days he and Alan go to the local supermarket for breakfast, an event I always have an open invite for, and after home games the post-match race is always on to see who can get served first at the bar. On some nights, when the form is good, evenings can slide past their self-imposed curfews.
I’d like to think they take as much from our friendship as I do. At the beginning I used to naively think I was doing them a favour but I quickly learned to share their appreciation for companionship as I continue to try to make my way in the world. I see them more often over the course of the season than some of those I would deem closest to me. I would like to think that if my grandpa was still here he would be joining us in one of my favourite parts of the Saturday routine, with a half of Best in one hand and a dram containing just one blob of ice in the other.
• This article appeared first in Nutmeg magazine
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