Football Forever — A Short Story

Henry's dad used to love football. That's how it always used to be.

Growing up, Henry spent more time in stadiums, breathing the cool air around him as he watched with anticipation the ball fly around the pitch, his dad's rough hand in his, than he did in his own room. In his own house. Or, that's how it felt, anyway. And he never once complained—why would he? He learned to love the game almost as much as his dad did, and while he would never tell him, he enjoyed having an excuse to spend time with his dad.

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His mum used to say that Henry worshipped his dad; he was sure she was joking every time she said it, as her eyes sparkled and she always had the same slight smile on her face, but Henry never once corrected her. He was sure his dad was in on the joke, too—he always laughed, deep and hearty, and Henry always felt as if he was right back at a football match, listening to that same laugh after a goal, as his dad hugged him tight. So, he supposed, after the joke had run for a while, that maybe he did.

But then, after a while, Henry's dad stopped taking Henry with him to games. And then his dad stopped going to watch football at all. It didn't bother him much at first; he just assumed that his dad had a cold or stomach ache or something, and that maybe he needed a break. But after a few months had come and gone, Henry started to miss going to watch football—the buzzing of the crowd, the singing, the fresh air, the happiness of winning, and how happy his dad would get when their team scored… He didn't even watch the games on TV anymore or even check the scores.

Henry missed it so much that he felt empty. The memories of past games kept appearing like flashbacks in a film, like when their team scored once, right in the last minute, to win the game, and afterwards, his dad just couldn't stop grinning. Even long after the game finished, he just couldn't seem to stop smiling and whistling one of the songs from the game. It occurred to Henry then that he had never seen his dad smile, laugh, or even whistle like he was then. Once his dad stopped going to the games with him, or even talking about football, Henry soon realised that he was right. His dad was never really happy anymore.

Henry wasn't quite sure what to do about this. In his mind, the only thing that made his dad happy was football, so he had another thought and decided one day to mention football, in the hopes of seeing his dad smile again.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, bud?" his dad said quietly, from where he sat on the sofa, as he did most days now.

"Are we playing today?"

"Who?" his dad asked, seemingly confused.

"The team. Football?" Henry replied, equally confused.

Henry then watched as his dad's eyes darkened, and a strange mixture of emotions flickered across his face. Then, his dad sighed so heavily that he seemingly sank deeper into the sofa.

"Not today, mate," his dad said, his voice so low that Henry struggled to even hear him. Henry nodded, assuming that meant that they weren't playing at all, but his dad then asked him to go and play somewhere else because he was being too loud, even though he was just reading a book.

Henry just nodded, thinking that he must have hurt his dad's feelings somehow, because his dad barely even looked at him after that.

---

Henry gripped the steering wheel tightly so the memory would fade. He wasn't quite sure why it still hurt him, even now, when it had been just over 30 years. Going to watch football used to be something that just the two of them would do, and it made him feel so happy, so grown-up… and he assumed it made his dad feel happy too.

But he must've been wrong. Maybe his dad just took him to games because he felt like he was supposed to as a dad, and then got bored with them. Or maybe it was something Henry had done… He couldn't think of anything specific that would've made his dad hate football, but why else would he suddenly act like it didn't exist? Maybe it wasn't the game that his dad got tired of, but him.

As that thought cemented itself into his brain, Henry had to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road. This afternoon was going to be hard enough as it was—he didn't need that thought tripping him up while he was dealing with... everything.

Since his dad went into the care home, Henry had only heard how things were going through the occasional check-up phone calls from the carers. They were kind enough, saying that he was just getting used to things, but Henry knew well enough that his dad could have rung him if he wanted to. Not that Henry called the care home himself during those weeks when his dad was settling in, either. It's not that he was waiting for the nurses to call, really. He was just… busy.

Henry hated that he sounded like his dad; he didn't mean it in that way… he just… had a lot going on. And Henry would have listed all of these responsibilities if he hadn't just driven into the car park of his dad's care home.

Henry suddenly felt his palms go cold, and his mouth was scratchy and dry as he tried to swallow. The nerves always hit him quickly, like a shot of whiskey burning his throat—he didn't drink much, just as he didn't really speak to his dad much, not since he was a kid, which made doing both of those things quite daunting events. More so, the 'attempting to speak to dad', but still.

Henry wanted to try and be a good son, despite everything. Admittedly, it wasn't as if he was busy anyway; all he did was get through the workday, sleep, and repeat… but it was never easy with his dad.

It was the same now, as he quietly signed in with a friendly receptionist. He tried his best to be polite before he ambled his way through the care home corridors, desperately searching for his dad's room: 407. It was typical, his dad had to have one of the highest room numbers, which meant it was as far away from the entrance, and Henry, as possible. It was as if the universe liked to emphasise that what he felt was true, his dad got tired of him.

Henry felt the muscles in his legs strain from the stretch of being sat driving his car, and sighed. He used to love running and wouldn't think twice about having to do any kind of walking. He used to take a strange kind of joy out of it, his muscles waking up like this. Lately, though, he found that he didn't get much joy out of anything.

Even as he walked into his dad's room and noticed a football game flickering on the TV, there was no pang of joy in Henry—because his dad was turned away from the screen, his face drawn, and sad.

"Alright, Dad?" Henry asked.

"Hello, son," his dad answered, his voice quiet.

Henry sat down gently in a chair, facing the silent football game on the TV screen, and his dad opposite him.

The next few moments of silence dragged on, and Henry felt like he’d been sitting there for an hour before his dad’s chair finally creaked as he twisted to face the TV.  With a click, he then turned it off with the remote. Henry tried not to read into the meaning of that action, instead looking over at his dad's face, lined with age and years of frowning. He was frowning again now, and his eyes were watery as he looked steadily into Henry's.

"I need to talk to you," his dad said.

"What's wrong?" Henry asked, his heart suddenly beating fast; his dad sounded serious, and he hadn't spoken to him so directly in what seemed like forever. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good. 

"Since I've been here… they got me speaking to a doctor about my falls an’ that, and they gave me something to help with my back pain, and the doc… they also said there was something else wrong with me."

Henry's heart shot into his throat so quickly that he almost choked on it as he said. "What is it, Dad?"

His dad sighed and cleared his throat. "He told me I have depression."

Henry coughed as his heart slid back down in his chest.

"I know - I was shocked, too. Didn't believe him at first, but then he said… well, he asked me about my mood and things. And…"

Henry's dad looked away for a moment, his eyes misty. "It kind of made sense. I'm not sure you remember, but we used to go and watch the footie a lot, you and me."

"No," Henry said quickly, "I remember."

"Well," his dad continued. "One day, the day before a match… it was like a switch flicked in my brain. The games I used to love, and the time with you I used to treasure… it was like all the colour had gone out of it. I thought I'd just gone off the football, but talking to the doctor, he said it sounded like it was depression, and I just used not liking football anymore as an excuse to pretend everything was fine when it wasn't. I wasn't fine because there was no happiness in my life anymore. Not for football, which I loved… Not for anything."

Henry felt tears well up in his eyes as his dad's words landed heavy on his chest, as hard as punches. What he said—about him not enjoying things he loved, about there being no happiness in his life—sounded just like he was feeling, now. "Dad…"

"No, let me... let me just… I just wanted to say, I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry that I was so miserable for most of your life."

"Dad? What?! No!" Henry said, his words coming out louder than he intended.

"Well… the doctor said depression can run in families, sometimes. Which explains my mum, but since then I just keep thinking… how much I failed you," his dad said, twisting his aged hands over and over on his lap. "When you were a kid. But even now… I've noticed how low you seemed when I spoke to you the last few months, and just waved it away, but… I'd hate to think I did this to you."

"You didn't," said Henry. "It's not your fault. It's no one's fault. It's just chemicals, that's all." He didn't bother to pretend he was fine—what was the point, really? And anyway, he hadn't talked to his dad so openly in years, he wouldn't dare waste this moment by spouting lies.

Henry's dad coughed and rubbed at his eyes. "You're right; the doctor said the same. Even so, I'm sorry, lad. All the games we missed when you were a kid…"

"Dad, please, you don't need to apologise," Henry said, before reaching over to hold one of his dad's aged hands in his. "It's alright, you weren't well. Listen to your doctor."

His dad nodded, "You're a smart boy. You know, he's told me I should start going on some tablets for it. Can you believe-"

"Dad," Henry had to stop himself from sighing. "You know there's nothing wrong with medication. Trust the professional and at least try them out -"

His dad smiled, making Henry pause.

"I'm not that decrepit, you know," Henry's dad said. "I was just going to say that I can't take tablets for the life of me. I must have them split in half by the nurses, or I almost choke on them."

Henry remembered his dad trying to take an ibuprofen years ago and having a coughing fit. "So… Have you started taking them, then?"

His dad nodded. "A few days ago."

"Wow, Dad — that's amazing. I'm proud of you."

Henry's dad smiled. "Thanks, son. So, do you think you can take your own advice and go and talk, and then listen, to a professional yourself?"

Henry thought for a moment. "Maybe."

"Well, how about this: if you do, I'll take you to a match, just like old times."

Henry grinned. "Alright," he said, shaking his dad's hand, "it's a deal."

In what felt like a distant memory set in the present, Henry and his dad spent the rest of the visiting hours talking and reminiscing and making each other laugh, just like old times.

Then, after a heartfelt goodbye and a hug, as Henry walked out of the care home, he could've sworn that he felt… lighter. Not quite joy, but he felt that if he were in a similar hole to his dad, he could see the way out. That he knew he could climb out, if he tried. And Henry wanted to, he thought, as he fished out his phone from his pocket to remind him to book an appointment with his GP. He even decided to go for a gentle jog when he got home—no time like the present, really—not since he was going to go to a football game again with his dad in a few months.

Henry felt his younger self, somewhere, jumping with joy at that news, and promised he would get better by then, for his dad. After all, if his dad could, then so could he. Especially if it meant they could go and watch a football match together again. Just like old times, only better.