A sign from Cod

“If you don’t know who they are, don’t get anything signed. You’ll know who they are if they played for us.” Thank you, brother Joe, for such excellent advice.

Leeds United’s centenary celebrations were the perfect tribute to our football club. A grey, muggy Saturday at 3pm against a shit Championship team while we wore an overpriced kit that had nothing to do with our history. Heritage.

A ruby-faced fifteen-year-old, I took my season ticket in my free Leeds United Card Holder™ and marched to the ground, where the rain was now characteristically pissing down. I’d arrived two hours before, racing to waste ten of my mother’s hard-earned pounds on two extra special centenary programmes and collect the signatures of my heroes. Scarf, shirt and sharpie: I was ready.

Ball swings in, bat swings back, boom! First fella, no doubt in my mind. Judging by the smile the size of his face, Sir Tony Dorigo may just as well have asked for my signature, given the joy he seemed to exude when I said hello. Now focus, it was time. Just as we’d practiced.

Underneath my 2019/20 home shirt, I’d chosen to wear a base layer of the 1991/92 home, and I must admit, just sometimes, my genius astounds me. Yorkshire Evening Post, those triangles, and the signature of our greatest ever full-back just next to the badge. Move aside, 2010 Max Gradel shirt, a new prized possession has a frame to fill.

In the next hour and a half, I saw my reflection in Tony Yeboah’s head, high-fived Jermaine Beckford and got told off by Eddie Gray for running in the rain. Sorry, Uncle Eddie. I haven’t done it since. I opted against handing him the sharpie, as to not ruin the perfection of the Tony Dorigo shrine I was building.

The rain kept falling and I kept scrambling, dashing from car park to Pavilion to East Stand entrance like Cellino’s taxi. 2:45pm. Kick off loomed, and I had to make the most of the opportunity I had, the only day in the club’s history when the legends finally came together. Movement. Like a gazelle at dawn, my ears pricked and I was away, chasing the moving pack to get a glimpse of the next spot on my bedroom wall. Radebe? Hunter? Pablo?

“Hello, hi,” I nervously shook, my mind scrambling through facial recognition systems. He was in his seventies, grey hair, tall. “Would you mind signing my scarf for me, please?” Long coat, big smile, northern. “Oh, the pen doesn’t work on there?” He must have been in Revie’s team. What an honour! “Could you sign my shirt please, instead? Just there, right next to Tony’s signature.”

The game happened, Kalvin scored, some brummies tried to have a fight. That story has already been told. This story, however, should never have happened in the first place.

I returned home. In the door, through the hall, into the kitchen. Dad’s there. Joe’s there. Mum doesn’t care. I whip the shirt off and drape it across the kitchen table, the three of us peering over it like we’ve just found the first cracks in the Jurassic Park eggs. Tony Dorigo’s gorgeous and everybody’s impressed. Excellent start.

Next one? No idea. Not a clue. Smidgeless. I know, let’s pop it on Twitter. I’m sure those intelligent young men over at The Square Ball can find out.

“Oh, Peter Haddock replied!” Joe shouts. As a ruby-faced fifteen year-old, I had not a flying fuck of a clue who, in fact, Peter Haddock was.

“What did he say?” I asked, assuming it was someone to match the pedigree of my new mate Tony and certify the excellence of my genius.

Joe reads Peter Haddock’s reply: ‘Can confirm that’s my dad’s signature mate.’

I turn to my brother, unable to look him in the eye.

“What did I fucking tell you?!” ⬢