Excerpt from Life Sentence by Mark Hodkinson
Four novels, two remote controls (television and CD player), one mobile phone, three magazines, several pieces of fruit: Chesterfield 1 Rochdale 1.
I should have been there last Saturday - Saltergate, that is - but I was in bed, ill, on my back, on doctor's orders. Two days earlier, my weekly five-a-side jaunt had finished prematurely when a shot was deflected into my eye. Whoosh, everything went red. The impact had burst blood vessels and, fearing I'd also damaged the retina, I did what I was told and spent three days in bed. The specialist thought (and the squeamish might want to bale out here) that blood and various syrupy bits might otherwise leak into the eye.
So, for the first time in my life - and, boy, do I appreciate how lucky I've been - I was ill, properly ill, while Rochdale were playing a match.
Obviously, I had one eye on the score (my good one) and at half-time we were winning 1-0.
The phone went: "Heard the score? I told you they'd do it for you." If only I hadn't been told to avoid sudden, abrupt movements. Otherwise I'd have laughed heartily at this point. Rochdale have seldom done anything "for me". They are a club of perpetual heartaches and headaches. I've been on their metaphorical sickbed for 26 years.
Appropriately, we lost the lead in the final minute and we've now gone nine matches without a win. As I lay there, surrounded by the paraphernalia of sickness, I realised that this lost weekend would remain for ever linked with a trifling Nationwide League third division match.
I'd remember, of course, the anxious drive to the hospital and the doctor's sigh as he peered into my eye, but the Blu-Tack fastening it to my memory would be Chesterfield 1 Rochdale 1.
Other people have songs that evoke an incident that might be happy, sad or cataclysmic. The dots that, if joined, form the outline of my life comprise a handful of Rochdale matches played down the years. They mean nothing to anyone except the bloke with a piece of lint taped across his eye. Rochdale 2 York City 0 was the end of my first long-term relationship. She'd broken the news a few days before. She'd met this bloke at work and she'd never felt this way before. She was sorry. Rochdale won, but I was hurting so much that I felt nothing as the ball hit the net. I just sat there, dazed, and Dad, out of respect, hardly moved either. Someone still cared.
Rochdale 2 Crewe Alexandra 1. Grandad had recently suffered a "breakdown"
or a "stroke"; the doctors weren't quite sure which. He now walked
with a shuffle and stared into space. He thought it was 1958, but it was actually
1978 and we'd taken him to Spotland to give my gran some respite. We scored
and fans on all sides spilt down the terraces in glee.
"We've scored," I said, gripping his arm. "We've scored."
"Have we?"
Unfortunately, it isn't possible to hold sway over which matches the subconscious mind attaches to certain memories. I should recall, for example, who we played when my two sons were born, but I'd need to check old programmes to find out. Perhaps some incidents, life or death for instance, are of such magnitude that they cannot run parallel to football. I'm not convinced, though.
Several matches have stayed with me although they do not relate to a particular episode, but more a "feeling". They form a portal to a vividly recalled past. Rochdale drew 1-1 at Blackpool while I was on holiday in Devon. I think of the scoreline, then I think of being 15, and walking down a dusty road, kicking at the ground in my trainers, piling the towels and wind-breaks into my uncle's camper van and setting off to the beach.
Sometimes, a match is like the touchpaper on a firework display, igniting a series of memories largely unconnected to football. We lost away to Cardiff City. We were driving through the Yorkshire Dales when I heard the score. The garden of the hotel where we stayed was full of apple trees heavy with fruit. Dolly Parton was on the telly. We ate in a restaurant that had old photographs of racing cars on the walls. Only by first thinking of Cardiff City 2 Rochdale 1 does any of this come back to me.
When I recall these matches, I'm also reminded of my team's propensity to rain on my parade. Many otherwise happy days have been spoilt by scorelines and goalflashes from Darlington, Colchester and the rest. Suddenly, a warm day can turn chilly, a good mood sour, and caring so much about your team feels more than a bit cock-eyed.