Gavin McCafferty discusses the idea of supporting a 'second team'. 
Second Teams
I thought I knew everything about my Dad. What he doesn't divulge about his past, one of his many big sisters will be only too willing to oblige. But I recently discovered a secret about his present life that completely baffled me at first. Something about him that didn't tally with my notion of him as a sane, logical man. And then I realised the reason for the bizarre anomaly in his psychological make-up - he's a Motherwell fan.
It's fair to say that I uncovered the secret by snooping. My mother and I found a booklet from his work which was designed to let all the staff know something about each other. His profile' said he was an avid football fan and followed Motherwell FC. No surprises there. But then he claimed his 'second team' was FC Barcelona.
Now, the Old Man may watch Barca when they play a British team in the Champions League, but he's shown no other discernible interest in the fortunes of the Catalan giants. What origin did this secret love have? I could not contain my curiosity and phoned him for an explanation. It was simple, he said. As he works in England, anyone who asks who he supports suddenly develops a sneering attitude as they inevitably tell him they're a Man U fan or a Gunner, as he desperately tries to recount the glory years at Fir Park to the ignorant buffoon. Now, he says, he tells them his second team is Barca, just to stick it right up them.
Mystery solved. I suppose a natural reaction to silence his English friends. But his 'second team' is no serious hobby, unlike when I almost became as embroiled in another club's fortunes as the Well's. Nick Cusack was partly to blame as I heaped twice as much misery upon myself as normal. I moved near Darlington when I was 11, reluctantly leaving behind my Fir Park season ticket. With trips to see the Well being cut to about one a month, we attempted to maintain our love of football by going to see the north-east sides - and obviously Darlo was the easiest to get to. So, after a couple of years, we were almost regulars at Feethams, and I found myself cheering whenever they scored. And there was a lot of cheering - they won the Conference and the old Fourth Division in two years, the second triumph in the same year as the Scottish Cup win. But they went too far, too soon, and struggled badly in the Third Division.
It was then that the pain started. As their glory-hunters deserted them, I found myself needing to catch the bus to watch them get stuffed on a freezing January midweek. I couldn't desert them. I was constantly reminded of the time I first realised the pain of football. I started going to see Motherwell in 1981/82 - and for a good few months I don't think I saw them lose! Then my Dad took me to a pre-season friendly against Leeds after our promotion success. We got gubbed 4-0 and I couldn't quite come to terms with our invincibility being shattered. This didn't happen at Motherwell games, I thought in my utter naivety. An almost tangible sadness hung over me all the way home, and I broke down in tears when my Mum asked me what was wrong when I trudged through the door. The world was different after that - my mood was something I no longer had any control over.
And 10 years later, just as I was realising that this painful affair with Darlo had to end, they announced their record signing - Cusack. I had to keep going then as they struggled to get off the foot of the table - I couldn't let the big man down. After missing his first couple of home games because of trips to see Motherwell, I went to every one of their following home games before the last week of the season. And it got even worse as relegation became inevitable. Their tactics of pumping it up to Cusack and hoping for the best were getting them nowhere and were dragging their dwindling band of fans down with them.
For the last game of the season, I'd had enough. They were already down, and I had a French exam on the Monday. I'll study, I thought to myself to get rid of any nagging guilt for not going. And, of course, Darlo won 5-2 with big Nick bagging a brace. Worse was to follow, though, when my mates told me the game had been brightened up further by a travelling contingent wearing the Claret and Amber.
"Zut, alors," I exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. Cusack moved to Oxford in the summer and, with the mental scars still healing, I put a stop to the Darlo nonsense - an occasional game as an interested bystander is all they get from me now. I have enough emotional turmoil following Motherwell.
Mind you, I might just pick Real Madrid as my 'second team' to make watching Sky Sports 3 on a Sunday night a bit more interesting when I visit the Old Guy. I should be safe enough with them - I can't imagine Real signing Cusack in their hour of need.
Gavin McCafferty
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