Brighton Lights: It’s all relative

Guy Lloyd: being a dad isn’t always a game of footie in the park …

As I sit down and write this blog, I can tell you it’s very tense in the Lloyd household this weekend. No I wasn’t out late last night. It was actually date night (which allows me extra leverage next weekend). And I’ve done some DIY today. In fact, what with me food shopping in Asda and putting the washing out, you could say I have been a model husband today.

There is no tension between myself and Mrs L – the strained atmosphere is between me and my eleven year old son. Cast your mind back to a blog a few months ago and I told you the story about my son defecting from supporting my team (Spurs) and supporting a new team (Chelsea) … (only Arsenal could be worse, what’s wrong with Brighton? He was born here for God’s sake). Yes my team were struggling at the time and his was riding high at the top of the premiership, and kids like winning, but there was a deeper reason here for the sudden change of heart; my boy was growing up.

He was essentially saying, ‘I’m my own man now, I make my own decisions’. He was becoming an independent little boy as he headed into his teens, with new found confidence and independence. And as a parent, you have to both accept that and encourage that. But Chelsea? Seriously?? I can’t pretend it wasn’t a kick in the teeth. And in that horrible moment when I knew I’d lost him, I considered the options. Putting him up for adoption seemed plausible, but harsh. Away from football, there’s a deep love there and I guess we should see that through. I quite like being a dad, and although he wouldn’t admit it, I think he quite likes being my son.
After weighing up the options – which included having a very stern chat explaining that I will never buy him a Chelsea shirt – I decided that I would just have to grin and bear it. Although his was the superior team, more prone to winning than my own, I advised him that football, like life, wasn’t all about the winning. It was about taking the highs with the lows (I wish my team won as much as his though).

Anyway, weeks after this life changing event, Spurs beat Chelsea 5–3. I hoped that it would turn my son around and make him crawl back to Daddy, apologising for being wrong. It didn’t. It just made him more determined to ignore my pleas. And now, three months after he deserted me, we play each other in a Cup Final tomorrow. I’m taking him to the pub tomorrow to watch it together. If we win, I will be delighted but I won’t rub it in. If his team wins, I will never talk to him again.
Let battle commence …