A Gun to My Head to Watch The Gunners

It was December 7th, 2002. I was nine-years-old and my family was living in England at the time. We lived just north of London in a town called Watford.
When you grow up in England, you live and breathe football (soccer, for all you Americans out there). We played it before school, at lunch, after school, while we slept… always. But, to put it lightly, Watford FC wasn’t the most fan-worthy football team. So my friends and I all pledged our allegiance to Arsenal FC, the Gunners — and we bled red and gold. When an Arsenal match was on, we were watching. When they changed their jerseys for a new season, we got them.
Arsenal has a long standing rivalry with Manchester United. So you’d think that when my dad offered to take me to a Arsenal vs. Manchester United game at Man-U’s home field, Old Trafford, I’d be overwhelmingly excited. We’re talking the first (and only) Arsenal match I attended live. And it was against our rivals on their turf. You’d think I’d be ecstatic.
A friend of mine had a birthday around this time, and we’d been awaiting this rivalry match for a while now. So, naturally, he had all of the lads over for a sleepover the night before the December 7th match so we could all watch it together the next day. When I found out I was going with my dad to Manchester, the first thing that crossed my mind was, “What about watching it with my friends?” Here I was, gifted an opportunity of a lifetime, an opportunity to experience something that I still vividly remember to this day, and I was ungrateful.
We traveled the 184 miles from Watford to Manchester in a fancy private shuttle bus with some of my dad’s co-workers. We laughed, we ate, and we made bets on the game. I was out of my comfort zone at this point (it wasn’t until I was 14 and we moved to California that I found my confidence; but, that’s a story for another time). Safe to say, the drive was a growth experience in and of itself.

I arrived at Old Trafford with an already broadened perspective on the world. Then we entered the stadium. I had never been to a Premier League game in a stadium like this. I was in awe, yet still thoroughly outside my sphere of comfort. Actually, let’s be real. I had lost sight of anything that resembled comfort at this point. But the awe prevailed and we watched that rivalry match as red and gold flowed through my veins. AR-SEN-AL! AR-SEN-AL! AR-SEN-AL!
My Gunners lost. I cried like only a football-obsessed nine-year-old English boy could. Give me a break though. I was only nine and had abandoned my comfort zone like I had abandoned my friends back in Watford. What was I thinking? Well, I actually had forgotten all about my friends at this point. I was swept away by the emotional roller coaster of that day and my friends were nowhere to be found in my consciousness.
I learnt a lot that day. But there is one thing that should have trumped any thoughts about my friends from the very start and I didn’t even recognize or appreciate it until writing this story. December 7th is my dad’s birthday. This man, this brilliant man, could have done any number of things that day. Yet he chose to wake up stupid early, take a three hour bus ride to watch a sport he didn’t care about, deal with me crying over the 2–0 defeat, only to ride three hours home with my grumpy arse. He gave me an opportunity of a lifetime. One that has yet to be matched. What a man. What a brilliant man.
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