In some cultures across the world, the transformation from Boy to Man is celebrated and confirmed with some (often painful) ritual.
In late 1960s / 1970s Scotland, that morphing was signified by receiving your first leather football. The old, light, plastic ‘fly-away’ ball would have a pen-knife thrust into its feeble outer (well, only) skin, the quickly fading hiss of escaping air represented a release from the constraints of boyhood.
And so it was, Christmas 1970, I made that transition.
I don’t think I’d ever been so excited by a gift. My new, white-painted leather football, with a yellow lace binding the panels together to prevent the internal, air-filled bladder from spewing out, was the greatest gift a young lad could wish for.
Santa, you’re an absolute star!
I stared at that ball all morning; I sat with it at the table for Christmas Lunch; I incessantly bounced it in the living room, much to the annoyance of my Mum, Grandmother and Aunties, all of whom wanted to hear the Queen’s speech.
Eventually, having finished off the last can of the McEwan’s India Pale Ale, my dad, grandfather and uncle, who’d all played a bit in their youth, suggested we go up to the nearby grass football pitch for a kick-about.
Yay! Me and my grown-up football, playing football with grown-ups!
This was the best Christmas … ever!
Bear in mind, painted balls were a recent innovation. Footballs previously did not have any great water-proofing, other than the odd dolop of Dubbin. This meant that when playing in the wet weather, they became heavy as cannonballs.
The concept of a water-resistant football was obviously alien to my hardened, experienced veterans. These balls were made for use on grass only.
But try telling that to three half-canned excited adult males!
All the way down the street; all the way up the lane; all along the rough path leading to the football pitch, they passed the ball between them. I could see on the odd occasion the ball came my way, it was already scuffed.
Worse followed when my uncle skied a shot at his father and the ball flew through the rows of barbed wire at the top of the fence keeping people away from the railway line.
Oh yeah … NOW you want me to play. To be helped up and over the barbed wire onto the track to retrieve MY ball?!
Horror of horrors! The barbed wire had created a huge score, not only over the painted surface, but on the leather ball itself.
My good football! Muuuuum!
The ba’s bust, as we say in these parts. Game’s a bogey.
Oh well – Christmas isn’t just about getting presents, is it? It’s about making memories … and I still haven’t forgotten, or indeed forgiven, my dad, grandpa and uncle!!
😀
Discover more from
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
onceuponatimeinthe70s.com 
Crikey that got to be one bad-looking ball pretty quickly! But absolutely, the great gift is remembering good times from that day half a century later!
Dubbin- there’s something I haven’t thought of in years! My mom would have us rub that on our boots in rainy weather.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Still use Dubbin on my walking boots and DMs. 🙂
LikeLike
Necessity being the mother of invention the Mitre Mould Master was invented and scarred, bruised and traumatised us for life…..
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yup the rite of passage for some African lads is to be smothered in honey and forced to stand below a killer bee nest for half an hour.
In West of Scotland, we were led out onto a cold and frosty red blaize football pitch and had to take a sharply hit Mitre Moud Master to each quads area and one to the gonads.
NOW we we were adopted into adulthood.
😂
LikeLike
That’s a great story, though I guess you felt differently about it at the time and understandably so.
It does remind me on my soccer days playing with my friends on a soccer field in the village where I grew up back in Germany. Unlike my buddies who all had joined the local soccer club and went to practice at least once a week, I didn’t do any of that, so completely sucked at the game. Most of the times, I ended up being the goalie – or was it the object for target practice? 🙂
In any case, I still fondly remember those days. Even though I was at best only mildly talented, be it as a field player or goalie, it still was fun. And it gave me some physical exercise, which was beneficial since I much rather listened to music and/or, once I started playing the guitar, practiced my instrument than engaging in sports.
“Sport ist Mord!” (sports is murder) 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
You don’t have to be the next Bundesliga superstar to enjoy the sport … And a guitar player’s career will last way longer than a football player.
Good call.
😀🎸⚽
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh well, except I kind of gave up guitar and bass more than 30 years ago cause. I don’t want to bore you with the details. Anyway, nowadays I’m pretty rusty – though probably still slightly more skillful than playing soccer! 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
I plan to START when I retire, probably later this year. That’s guitar, not football. My football days ended about thirty years ago! (Yeah – about time I learnt a musical instrument.) 🙂
LikeLike
Funny I never think of a football as being all white. I seem to only remember the black and white soccer balls we had here in Canada. Such a great story and you always conjure up great images and I can’t help but compare to my own experiences. I used dubbin on my leather goalie (ice hockey) pads when I was a kid, slathered it on and wrapped them in newspaper until the next winter!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I still use Dubbin on my walking boots (work) and Dr Martens.
I’ve often wondered if it’d be better than Nivea on my face. 😉😂😂😂
LikeLike
Oh so unfair! Too bad.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yeah,Santa delivered the exact same ball as a dual gift for my brother and I. Boxing Day took it to the big grass park half a mile away.Some big boys stole the ball. we went home and told dad( for home the ball probably meant half a weeks wages) . He marched us back to the park where we identified the criminals in our midst who took one look at the veins throbbing in dads neck and decide they no longer required our ball and scarpered.PS we were marched home and not allowed out for three days !!. Seemingly two wee boys not standing up to four neo adults was unforgivable.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ha ha! Glad you got the ball back .. or your Dad did. I’m ‘laughing’ because the only time I remember getting a proper ‘spanking’ was when a neighbour phoned my folks to come and get me coz I was frightened of the doing I was threatened with by an older lad in the street.
After that I did stand up for myself and after knocking one bully off his seat in Geography class word quickly spread and I didn’t have any problems again.
😂
LikeLike