My kind of game.....

High Wycombe railway station, 3pm on a sun-lit Sunday afternoon in late-October. It can only mean one thing - your blogger and his father are on their way to London for the annual National Football League game at Wembley Stadium.

 He flies over from his home in Spain, we meet up at Warrillow Towers, drive down to High Wycombe (he drives and his driving still terrifies me; he used to be a sales rep/manager/director for several steel stockholding companies in the Black Country in his working days and probably travelled more miles along the country’s motorways at 85mph than I will do in a lifetime), then park the car and take the train down to the new Wembley Stadium station.

 We’ve been doing this since 1986 when American Football, the USA’s favourite sport, first came to the UK. Then, it was the Chicago Bears and the Dallas Cowboys in a pre-season game. Now, the Bears are back to meet the Tampa Bay Buccaneers in a proper game that actually counts in the regular-season schedule.

  We never get tired of this. As I’ve explained here before, my love of American Football comes from the finest schoolteacher I ever had, Dr Ken Thomas of King Charles I Grammar School in Kidderminster. When I was there in the late-1970s, ‘Doc Thomas’ used to liven up dull chemistry lessons with tapes of football games he’d garnered from his time in the States studying for his doctorate.

 My dad quickly picked up on my interest and is now just as keen an NFL-watcher as his son, except that he has the advantage of owning a Sky subscription.....

 The NFL has been holding one regular-season game in London for the past five years, although this one nearly didn’t happen. A dispute between players and team owners during the summer (millionaires vs billionaires, as the American press billed it) had the entire season in doubt at one stage and the argument was only resolved late in July, at the 59th minute of the 23rd hour in terms of time left to arrange the London game.

 Nonetheless, 76,981 fans turned out and, as always, it was an amazing spectacle. Fans of all ages dressed in the shirts of the vast majority of the NFL’s 32 teams and there was an atmosphere that the FA would kill for at any of the pointless friendlies it has to stage in order to pay for a stadium with less than a tenth of the atmosphere of the venue they bulldozed to create this place.

 The game lived up to the atmosphere, which hasn’t always been the case. The Bears ran out into an early lead against a young Bucs roster that still seems to be finding its feet. But the team from the Windy City, who didn’t fly in to London until Thursday having played on the previous Sunday night back home, seemed to lose their energy in the fourth quarter. 

 Two touchdowns engineered by Buccaneers quarterback Josh Freeman brought the Floridians back into it and gave an excited crowd a finish to remember, with the game not resolved until Freeman threw an interception with 18 seconds left, giving the Bears a 24-18 victory.

 It was then that we saw one of the very few benefits that the new Wembley has over its predecessor. Less than 20 minutes after leaving our seats and calling in at the gentlemens’ facilities which are no longer a serious health hazard, we were on a train from Wembley Stadium station and on our way back to High Wycombe. We were back home in Tamworth, thanks in no small part to Himself’s astonishing driving, in time to watch the game highlights on the BBC.

 I’m already looking forward to the 2012 game and hoping that we don’t have to wait until August for confirmation that the game will take place. In a couple of years’ time, I’ll have one of those round-numbered birthdays and my dream is to take in an NFL game in the States. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could take my dad with me?

A sharp scratch on the road to South Africa

Did I mention our trip to South Africa later this year? No, I didn't think I had.  

 It seems remiss not to, as it will be the longest trip the Warrillows have undertaken since our honeymoon in Jamaica - and that was in the days when Paul Gascoigne was a highly-talented footballer, the United States had not yet invaded Iraq and Sky TV was still two years away from dominating televised sport in the UK.

 The holiday is in honour of a round-numbered birthday, one of those which come along every so often to mark the passing of another decade and remind us that Father Time is creeping up behind us with an ever-quickening step. 

 Whose birthday? Mind your own business, other than to say that Mrs W and I decided several years ago that one of us was taking a baseball road trip around North America for their ??th and the other was having a safari - and the road trip is still three years away.

 Being the Warrillows, of course, this is a safari with a difference; we’re stopping at a well-known naturist venue which has a game reserve close at hand, allowing us to enjoy the weather as nature intended and see some of the wildlife which most of us only ever get to see on television.

 Preparations are already underway. The holiday is fully paid for, travel arrangements to various airports are lined up (it’s a 12-hour flight, with a stop-off in Northern Europe before going on to Johannesburg) and last week saw the moment which I've been dreading about the whole thing - the inoculations.

 I don’t do needles. Despite being married to a phlebotomist and regularly having donated blood before my epilepsy put me on the ‘banned for life’ list, needles still needle me.

 I still hate blood tests (and as a practising epileptic, I’ve had a few); the soothing phrase ‘it’s just a sharp scratch’ really isn’t convincing and although I don’t scream the place down  as I used to when I was a child, I still have to look the other way and count to ten when the needle goes in the vein.

 It’s why I have such enormous respect for those who practice phlebotomy for a living, especially those who carry out phlebotomy on children and especially babies with tiny veins.

 Nevertheless, it had to be done; three injections to stave off the various life-threatening diseases which lurk in southern African climes  - two needles in one arm and one in the other.

 It’s fair to say I wasn’t in the best state of mind. Various business appointments had taken me to Solihull and Burton-on-Trent earlier in the day and I was feeling fairly frazzled by the time I got to the surgery.

 In some ways, that was a good thing as I didn’t have much time to think about it; in some ways, it was a bad thing as the shock when I walked into the treatment room and saw three needles, each the length of my middle finger, was all the greater.

 And suddenly I recalled that Mrs W, who had already been given her inoculations a week earlier, had mentioned how one of the needles in particular, ‘had made my arm ache really badly’. Thanks, dear........

 In the end, of course, it all went smoothly. The aching arm was only a mild irritation for a couple of days, there were no adverse reactions and it turns out that we don’t need yellow fever inoculations, which come at a hefty fee.

 So here we are, counting down the days. Having got the inoculations out of the way, I’m now worrying about driving in South Africa, so if anyone has been there, done it and has any advice, I’d be grateful.

 Otherwise - ??th birthday celebration, here we come...

Housework and a load of balls

I’ve become worryingly domesticated over the last few Saturday and Sunday mornings.  I’ve emptied, scrubbed and cleaned the cat’s litter tray; I’ve dismantled and washed his water fountain (and put it back together without losing a crucial small plastic part down the sink); I’ve swept the kitchen floor; I’ve hung out the washing without getting myself too tangled up in the airer and the damp clothes; I’ve put the powder and softener in the washing machine and loaded it; I’ve even been to the supermarket for milk and bread before the crowds started to arrive.

 Usually, I’ve done all this before 10.30am and before Mrs W and the cat had roused themselves from their beds.

  I’ll only be doing it for three more weekends, though; it’s not a habit I intend to fall into.

 Even those of you with only a passing interest in sport have probably realised that this is all tied in with the Rugby World Cup, currently taking place in New Zealand.

 I would describe myself as a rugby fan from a moderate distance. I played at school, but only when I really had to and before my dodgy knees ended any hope of a sporting career; I took an interest during 15 years on the sports desk of The Birmingham Post, when specialist knowledge of Worcester, Moseley, Coventry, Birmingham & Solihull et al was a crucial part of the sub-editor’s job. 

 I was a regular follower of the club game on television, before the Rugby Football Union dived into the money pit which is Sky Sports and deprived a huge proportion of the population of proper coverage.

 I watch the Six Nations on the BBC every year and promise myself that I will visit at least one West Midlands ground each season, something which I signally failed to do in 2010-11.

 But the 2011 World Cup has reignited my serious interest as, of course, the rugby authorities want it to.

 I determined before the start of the campaign to watch every England game, then developed a sort of vicarious Irish-ness as I realised what a decent team they were (something which I can entirely justify through Mrs W’s roots in Counties Leitrim and Donegal).

 I have yet to rise at 4am or 6am to watch Wales but, as the tournament reaches its’ business end this Saturday and Sunday, I plan to watch both quarter-finals on both days, with any luck leaving the other residents of the house sound asleep.

 How do I think the four matches will go? England have developed that priceless habit of playing desperately poorly at times yet still winning, while an equally disjointed France squad seem to be enjoying themselves about as much as the England football team at their World Cup last year.

 It should be a win for Martin Johnson’s men, then, but their inability to play convincing attacking rugby is going to tell at some stage and Jonny Wilkinson is a shadow of his former self; I don’t believe the ball he’s kicking is to blame.

 Of course, if England do win, then there’s the possibility of a semi-final against Ireland, something which would stretch domestic relations at Warrillow Towers close to breaking point. ‘Herself’ might even join me in front of the television for that one.

 I think Ireland will see off Wales, something which will not endear me to at least three close friends while Argentina, who face the hosts, have surely gone as far as they can and South Africa should beat Australia.

 Here we go, then; the alarm is set for 5.45am, the tea, coffee and toast is on hand and, all being well, I will be sufficiently awake to complete domestic business at half-time and between games. 

 If I don’t, getting out to see Tamworth v Lincoln City tomorrow afternoon could require some delicate negotiations.....