‘If I hadn’t had boys who liked sport, I’d never have learned the satisfaction of kicking a ball.’
It was about 8:50pm on a Wednesday in November when my mum got home from hospital. The staff at St George’s had spent two weeks trying to get her into a fit enough state to receive a second round of a new chemo drug, Trodelvy. Sadly, the cancer had already won, and we were well into injury time. As she sat down in the living room, oxygen tank connected, champagne flute in hand, she mustered up enough energy to look at the Champions League football on the TV, and tell a pundit who had become rather unpopular in the Pinder household to “fuck off.”
It was a reminder not only of her everlasting humour in the face of adversity, but also of how we bonded: through her indulgence of my passion.
Mum did not grow up a football fan, her thing was theatre. More specifically acting (though there’s no shortage of that in football, am I right?) She could have quite easily pushed me and my brother towards the theatrical world – and gave us the chance to do so – but it was clear from the days of me kicking a soft World Cup 1998 branded ball up and down our old flat’s corridor that nothing would supersede my love of football.
And so, at the age of 40, it was time for her to learn about the beautiful game.
Aside from the after-school clubs and freezing cold Saturday mornings spent mopping up my tears after another Little League defeat, there are a few memories that speak to her character above anything else.
Having spent many an afternoon in Wimbledon park standing between two trees to facilitate a game with me and my brother, she would often explain to her unaware colleagues and peers that, “If I hadn’t had boys who liked sport, I’d never have learned the satisfaction of kicking a ball.”
Mum would also recall a sincere concern she had during my short-lived time going to gymnastics classes so I could “learn how to do a flip-over like Michael Owen for when I score for England.”
“What if he’s not good enough to play professionally?” she asked my dad, who could only laugh, having already seen my distinctly average technique and come to terms with the fact that he would not be retiring early on his son’s Premier League wage.
But that was how much mum wanted me and my brother to succeed in following our dreams. Whatever we wanted to do, she was behind us, encouraging us to “find what you love and do it for a living.” It is because of that encouragement that I am lucky enough to have this job and process my grief by writing about the power of football, and how the beautiful game created beautiful memories that will unite us forever.
And it was through my insatiable appetite for football that she learned to become a fan too. But her fandom manifested very differently. While there are plenty of parallels between theatre and modern football, her compassion overrode any partisanship. She wanted everyone to win, and would spend most Sunday afternoons telling players off for pushing each other over, ‘like kids in the playground.’
Any time I set off to watch my beloved Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park, she would always hail a chant of “Eeeeaaaagggllleees” from the kitchen, which became something of a superstition. Obviously, most of those trips ended with me coming home feeling disappointed, but having experienced the Selhurst atmosphere herself a few times, she would always find a way to lift my spirits with her customary ‘at least we won the singing’ comment. We do always win the singing, to be fair.
But of course it was international tournaments that engaged her most and provided us with the happiest memories. She was less interested in the furious arguments about Gareth Southgate’s team selection, and more invested in the human stories that ran alongside it. She developed an undying love for Raheem Sterling after his disgraceful treatment from the tabloid press. She hailed Marcus Rashford for his tireless work feeding the hungry. She melted at Kalvin Phillips’ infectious smile as he spoke about his late Granny Val. And yes, she was just as enamoured with Jack Grealish’s calves as the rest of us.
England’s Euro 2020 journey provided some much needed joy at an otherwise grim time for us all. While mum had more important things on her mind, I was acutely aware that this would be the last tournament we could enjoy together. So I made sure to prioritise watching every England game with the family, rather than going out.
Every goal celebration, every jovial shout of “In-ger-land”, every comment on Facebook explaining to her friends why it mattered, gave me the satisfaction that can only come from teaching a loved one to share your passion. And while it all ended in heartbreak, it made it all the sweeter to share those glorious moments with her.
Football is my life, and because of that it became part of hers. For that, I can never thank her enough.
Reuben recently ran 10km with his brother to raise money for Breast Cancer Now. You can donate here.
