WE ARE FAMILY

Hugh MacDonald on bonding with his son through sport

TTHE stands erupt to the strains of Sweet Caroline. It is a glorious spring Sunday in Boston. The Red Sox are at bat, God in his heaven and my son has just returned from the food franchises with enough provisions to sustain a polar expedition or, indeed, a group of polar bears on an expedition.

It is autumn in Madrid. Three guys in front of us are slagging Ronaldo with a passion that invites accusations of insanity. My ascent to the summit of the stands at Bernabeu has involved marching past the bleached skeletons of Sherpas who could not quite make the climb to the uppermost corner of the home of Real Madrid.

As I search for a defibrillator, Ally, my son, and Andy, his mate, casually remark that it might have been better to have taken the lift. Their chortles threaten to serve as my eulogy.

It is summer in Berlin. Flares burst dramatically to our right and the smoke drifts across an Olympic Stadium that momentarily resembles a modernistic bouncy castle for deranged adults.

Cries of “Heja BvB” bombard the ears. Ally, at 30, is in a state of nervous tension not exhibited since his “one more sleep to Santa” era of a quarter of a century before. I, as so often in life, ponder just why I am where I am, in this case in the midst of a mass of Germans of all ages in the moments before the 2015 DFB Pokal Cup final between Borussia Dortmund and Wolfsburg.

The roars grow towards the climax of the first whistle and Ally briefly, strongly grabs my arm. It jerks me back to the present as Boston, Brechin, Bernabeu and Borussia flash back into the safety of wonderful, retained memory.

I am at a match with my son. I am in a spot of the world with love at my side and