Dan Ballard, folded deck chairs, chaotic nature of love & the night I kissed and made up with football

Sat in the passenger seat of my fiancé’s car at around 11:15pm, sweat dripping from my forehead due to the overwhelming excitement that had spread through my body like Japanese knotweed, my legs still throbbing from pain of being thrown around the Stadium of Light’s flimsy plastic chairs by complete strangers, I smiled to myself as I remembered the answer to the question I had long been asking myself.

I have a confession, and I’ve been afraid to admit it. There’s been times when I’ve fallen out of love with football this year. The fun vacuum of VAR turned me off from watching top flight football on the television. The swathes of money, dwindling sense of morals and the addition of social media trolls in place of a wavering sense of spirit and community have made me wonder if the sport had left my kind behind.

When it comes to myself and my love of football, it’s deep rooted. Football wasn’t a hobby, a prawn sandwich on a weekend and first class seat to success. Football was a necessity. A council estate boy from the north east of England, football was my best friend. The world of Sky Sports and its ability to rule the football calendar wasn’t really a thing for me in my younger years. We couldn’t afford it, so if I wasn’t sitting on my parents shoulders at Roker Park, I sat at home in my Nana's house listening to what she called ‘the wireless’. FA Cup final day was my treat - if we’d paid the electric bill.

We were worryingly poor. I don’t need a history lesson to tell you why. The season’s home shirt bought from Littlewoods (presumably because you could pay ‘on tick’) would be my September birthday treat from my auntie, but going to the cinema, and getting a new bike every Christmas were all things viewed as luxury, to the point that I still can’t even ride one at the grand old age of 38. I had a roof over my head, food in my mouth and Sunderland AFC. Not many friends, but who needs them when Don Goodman plays upfront for your team? Not me. It was enough.

The Lads, as I came to call them, came free of charge. Literally in some cases. I’m not sure my Dad even paid for me to get into Roker Park until I was about eight. I don’t ever recall a ticket being handed to the man behind the kiosk, but I do recall my Dad pleading with him that I was ‘just a bairn’ and deserved to see my team play for diddly squat. To that man, this is a belated thank you. To my Dad, sorry for ratting you out.

Southend United at home. Brett Angel and Gary Jones upfront as the dynamic duo on the opposing side. Fulwell End. Rain soaked, the scent of pies, programmes and Boddington’s flavoured flatulence soaring through the Wearside air. Lost 2-0. Season 1993/94. ‘Eye-eye marra, you brought the little ‘un with you today, like?’ a random man I had never met would ask my Dad, before I got a pat on the head, taught a song about not liking this team who wear black and white very much (I still know all the words) and - if I was lucky - a 70p matchday programme with glossy photos of Gary Owers, Phil Gray and Gary Bennett. All around me were people who loved the same thing I did, and wanted the same thing I did. A win. Three points. Sadly, in those early days at least, wins were in short supply.

When Peter Reid arrived on the scene just 18 months later, I had my first taste of real success. In his first game in charge against Sheffield United, I had managed to get myself at the front of the Fulwell End, and found myself squished against the thickly painted red barrier when Craig Russell smashed home a 90th minute winner. Bedlam. I’m pretty sure my nine-year-old body balanced four adults on my back as they celebrated like Einstein cracking the code to relativity while riding a unicycle on a tightrope. It may have hurt, but I’d have carried those four supporters on my back for the rest of eternity if I had. They believed in the same thing I did. I didn’t know them, but they were my people. In a home crowd celebrating a goal, nobody is a stranger.

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Just over a season later, Reid had turned relegation zone into revolution, Sunderland won the league and we were ready for our very first crack at the Premiership. Hope springs eternal. Cheer Up Peter Reid hit the charts, and my journey from child to adolescent would be littered with glorious memories of the little Scouser leading my Sunderland up against the world (well, England) and succeeding more often than not.

Fast forward 30ish years, and things are a little different. Not just for me, but football as a whole. The dream of promotion aligns with the fear of immediate relegation, the top tier of English football is not really cut out for dreams. Leicester City’s incredible title win back in 2015 put pay to that. How dare they? The ‘big’ clubs pour more money in, and any who want to challenge that narrative must be owned by all-seeing overlords that wouldn’t be able to understand the very community they now own if it exploded in their face like a shaken up bottle of Coca-Cola.

When my beloved Sunderland limped towards the play-offs from March, I watched on as social media mocked Southampton and their depressingly low points total. Their glorious day at Wembley less than a year ago ruined, their Premier League aspirations in tatters. From a distance, that play-off final win against Leeds United at Wembley was nothing short of a waste of time, a precursor to a season of desperation. Character building at best. Soul destroying in reality. Is that what it has all become, or does football still have a sense of wonder?

So, getting back to the point. Finding the answer to my question. The fear that promotion simply means potentially humiliating relegation. The understanding that club owners and marketing teams will rarely, if ever, be an extension of a fanbase. The fear that football means nothing. That it’s merely a money-making vehicle, my question of ‘what’s the point?’.

Step forward the EFL Championship play-offs. Arise Sir Dan Ballard.

There’s been few times when the answer to such a simple question has been answered in such delirious fashion, but when the big Northern Irishman connected to Enzo Le Fee’s inch-perfect cross with his body folded like a folded deck chair in the last second of extra time to beat Coventry City and secure our place in the EFL Championship play-off final next weekend, I kissed my fiancé, told her I loved her. I kissed the sky and hugged my season ticket neighbours Ross and Craig, told them I loved them too. And just like that, the chaotic nature of true love finally made sense again.

‘The wireless’, family, sitting on my Dad’s shoulders, the kind man behind the kiosk. Bedlam. Roker Park. Even Boddington's flavoured flatulence. Football’s life support machine was fired up in the 122nd minute of extra time at the Stadium Of Light, where love still exists. It always had, somewhere in the mire, somewhere amongst the flailing arms of strangers. And it’s those moments we must hold on to dearly. It’s in these moments the next nine-year-old on his Dad’s shoulders finds everlasting love.

So here’s to you Daniel George Ballard. The Roman Empire would build statues of you, and Shakespeare would write sonnets. Me? I’m just thankful for the reminder, for the moments. Family, friends, strangers, community and love. The journey, not the destination. And knowing, no matter what, I’ll always have a Sunderland.

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