Saying goodbye to Grandma...
How love and football built a relationship a grandchild could only dream of
Grandma sat up slowly.
“I thought you’d be at Orient today?” she said with a smile.
It was a cold and dark January day. Orient were at home to Wimbledon, but I wasn’t supposed to be at Brisbane Road. My place was somewhere else.
As I sat in the chair at Grandma’s bedside, we began to talk about family matters, her outrage at the failures of the current government, and of course, Orient.
As a child, I remember how Grandma would intervene across the table each and every time she had adjudged that my Grandpa and I had exceeded our time of Orient conversation. “Can’t you talk about something else?” she used to say in an exasperated tone before shaking her head in resignation as we continued. Sometimes, in utter desperation, she would try and impose an ‘Orient exclusion zone’ where the ‘O’ word was not allowed to be mentioned. My Grandpa would pause momentarily before simply replacing the ‘O’ word with another code word, much to her dismay.
But on this day, it was Grandma who mentioned the ‘O’ word first. “What’s gone wrong with that team of yours?” she asked. It was a fair question. We’d won just once in our past seven games, scoring just a single goal during that time. The early season optimism appeared to be giving way to the horribly familiar phrase of “typical Leyton Orient.”
“You know,” she said. “They’ve done pretty well so far this season. I just wish your Grandpa could have been here to see it.” I smiled, wiped something from my eye and suggested I make us a cup of tea.
That day we talked more than we had ever talked before. For over two hours, which was about all Grandma could manage by that stage, we recalled stories from my childhood, spoke about my children, her beloved great-grandchildren, and looked forward to events that in all honesty, we both knew she wouldn’t be here to witness.
So caught up in our conversation, I forgot to check the final score. “Grandma, Orient won,” I said with relief more than anything else. “Well, I never…that is something,” she said. Even during our most successful season for decades, she retained the ability to be constantly surprised by an Orient victory.
We celebrated with me crunching through a couple of biscuits. She barely ate or drank anything that afternoon, her eyes growing increasingly heavy. “I think you should get some rest,” I told her as I kissed her goodbye. “I’ll see you soon,” I said as I headed towards the door, peering around the corner one last time. She smiled and nodded. That was the last time I saw her.
For the best part of 35 years, my relationship with my grandparents and Orient had been inseparable. As a youngster, I’d play football in the back garden with my Grandpa, pretending Orient had just beaten Manchester United 5-0, before running to Grandma’s typewriter to write up the match report. There she’d go through it, editing the copy and advising eight-year-old me on where it could be improved. When I eventually moved into journalism, I could always rely on her to inform me of any grammatical errors that had somehow slipped through the sub-editor’s net.
The pair of them had been a constant in a world that at times I’ve found incredibly difficult to navigate. When Grandpa passed away during the National League title winning season, I was heartbroken for hundreds of reasons. On a trivial note, I was angry he was unable to witness the success he so deserved after putting up with the years of humiliation provided by the previous regime.
Perhaps it’s why that league title win was so, so special. So consumed by the combination of grief and anger at the wanton destruction that had been inflicted upon the club by those responsible, it was as if I had held my breath for the entire season. There was no real joy in it, just relief. Relief we had returned to the Football League. Relief we had won it for Grandpa. By the time it was all over, I was emotionally exhausted, unable to enjoy the enormity of the achievement. But perhaps most importantly, it gave me the closure I had so badly needed.
It was in February 2023, that Grandma passed away. I gave a eulogy while taking some solace in how she would have given a wry smile at having the ‘O’ word mentioned at her funeral. At her shiva, the seven-day mourning period observed by those of the Jewish faith, loved one’s shared stories of her life, while others tried to peek a glance to see if Orient had managed to see off bottom of the table Rochdale. I’d like to think she would have appreciated that.
As the week passed and Orient’s promotion appeared more and more probable, the realisation that I could no longer talk about my excitement with those who had helped nurture it became more difficult to deal with.
Even after that utterly surreal night in Gillingham, where amidst the darkness, defeat and dancing as our promotion was confirmed, I could still feel my fingers itch towards my phone to call Grandpa and tell him, “We did it.” I had to stop myself reaching for the phone and instead just looked towards the sky. He knew. They both knew.
I felt lighter after Gillingham. By the time we had beaten Sutton and then been confirmed as champions, the celebrations had really taken off in my household. Suddenly, both my children were singing and dancing to Darius Rucker’s Wagon Wheel on repeat. Now it was, “Daddy, can you help me do a somersault like Paul Smyth?” And “Can I have an Orient shirt as well?”
My daughter will turn six next year. She’s already seen Orient win two league titles. She’s growing up thinking that Orient winning trophies is normal. She is, for all intents and purposes, a modern-day glory hunter. When asked by inquisitors who she supports, she says “Orient” proudly, before adding “and Sheffield Wednesday” in case her mother is within ear shot.
My son, who is nearly three, spent most of the time singing “We’re on our way…” while telling everyone and anyone who would listen that “the O’s are going up.”
And I suppose this is how it starts. This is me paying it forward as my grandparents and uncles did for me. My early years of Orient were nowhere near as exciting nor as successful as the ones my children are witnessing. But that’s by the by. Where I once held my Grandpa’s hand walking down Brisbane Road, it’s now my children’s footsteps that I can hear.
And so, that is why this season mattered so much. It was the next chapter of our family’s Orient story, the coming of the third generation. My children are starting out on their own footballing adventure and perhaps, one day they will take their grandchildren just as my Grandpa took me all those years ago. I’d like to think both he and Grandma will be looking down on us as we make that walk. The best walk I ever made.