Figure 1 is a visualisation of the arrival of my Dad to take me to a game. Usually 5 minutes late with only a general idea of where we were going. The journey wasn’t always straight forward.
Getting in the car, I would sense my Dad checking me out to assess whether he thought I’d had enough sleep the night before. If I failed his test then the impending lecture about sleep would dominate the journey.
Finishing work early to get to training. Juggling workload, having a word with the boss, making sure your football boots are in the car so you can help out if needed.
Growing up, a football pitch could anywhere, shooting practice would take place where we could find a square wall to use as a goal. An enclosed space was important so you could concentrate on technique. Running after the ball because you missed was boring. Facing your parents because you smashed a window was a source of constant worry.
Football politics is an important business where we lived. Having a new football was a way to guarantee being the most popular kid on the estate. Before taking the ball out to play, Mum would give the instruction not to use it on concrete.
A good idea was to use your best football on grass, the older one’s on concrete.
Mum is boss, not really interested in football. Organising the daily schedule. Remembering birthdays. Football training is an hour of peace.
Making sure each player has a football to practice with, touching the ball, the feel of the ball at your feet. The constant battle to make your feet do what you want them to do.
Scoring a goal is a great feeling, age isn’t important.
Watching from the sidelines, wishing you could still play.
Portraits without a Home
Movement without a Home
