As of Saturday we now have a full house, yes everyone of the Perm family have wasted a Saturday afternoon staring at a piece of grass, waiting for the men in blue and white to do something interesting. The first little perm went to the last pre-season game when she was three, so same age, same game and it’s time for the second child to make his first appearance.
Perm one hasn’t put in an appearance since that fateful day in 2006, she even preferred going shopping to keeping her brother company for the St. Mirren game. A bit strange as, before her debut, she’d shown more interest than the son and heir. She had a reasonable idea of what she’d be seeing and even had a favourite player. She was a tiny bit older but she was following the action and asking questions.
Or at least until she got bored, after about 5 minutes.
He’s had a sister to distract him from all that stuff that dad’s interested in so he’s not quite had chapter and verse on Latics and he’s not spent quite as many Sunday afternoons in front of Sky Sports as she did and yet he lasted a whole half and a bit until Luke Skywalker started attacking that squirrel from Ice Age with his light sabre. He was taking it all in as well.
Not so much the game, but the crowd, the noise, the players warming up, their boots everything. There was probably too much going on for him, he was definitely taken aback by it all, but at the same time he sat most of the way through with a smile on his face. A few more games will wipe that away no doubt, but I guess he felt like one of the big boys, even though I couldn’t convince him to buy his dad a round after the game.
I don’t know that it’s a male thing though. Like I said, his sister showed more interest in what was happening on the pitch. Number one son’s favourite passage of play was a throw in, and his favourite player is now Mario Melchiot because of it (apparently it had something to do with the ball boy).
Mostly importantly, in this strange ‘father passes cross to son to bear’ world that is football fandom, I think he wants to go again. My mind’s racing ahead to arguments about whether he needs the fourth new shirt in two seasons, whether he’s old enough to go away on his own and what time he needs to pick his old man up so that my doddery old back doesn’t have to fight it’s way through a crowd to my seat.
But I’m getting ahead of myself there, maybe.
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