I always used to watch football matches with my father, sitting together in the living room. He would stretch out in one couch, I would stretch out in the other. I used to laugh at how he would get annoyed at almost every back pass our team made, and at all his little comments throughout the match.
Sometimes, just to annoy him, I’d make up things like, “I saw someone on Twitter saying…” and then say something ridiculous supposedly written by a rival team’s fan.
Now, though, I’m afraid to even go into that living room. I can’t imagine walking in there without him, turning on the TV, and watching a match.
I think maybe I loved football because I loved watching it with my father.
One of the greatest passions in my life may have died with him.
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