Title - The Scruffy Millionaire Tags - writing draft
About every other week, dad and I went to watch Walsall at the Bescot. Walsall were (and still are) a terrible team. They yo-yo’d between the third and fourth divisions of English football. It was God-awful to watch. Frustrating. To the point that I’ve often wondered why dad continued to pay for season tickets, year after year. Now that I’m a father, I wonder whether he did it to spend time with me. If so, it was a good investment, because I remember those times fondly. It wasn’t really about the football. We wanted Walsall to win. Of course we did. But we knew that would only happen 50% of the time at best. The joy was in the meat and potato pie at half-time. In signing at the top of your lungs alongside thousands of other fans. Local people. With a shared interest and shared values. Most of the joy, looking back, was sharing those experiences with my dad. One Saturday afternoon, we drove to the game in dad’s Honda Civic Type R. I thought this was the coolest car in the world. It had black leather bucket