CHARLTON!
Memories are often evoked by visual images, smells, or even taste (obligatory pretentious Proust allusion from moi here).
Yet one of my strongest childhood recollections is a sound.
That one word, name, Charlton!, absolutely roared out to the evening sky in a small farmyard in rural Tyrone.
A sight too, admittedly - of my dad gleefully booting a football from one end of that imaginary stadium to the 'goal' at the other side. The sound also of the ball crashing against the corrugated iron shed.
It only counted as a goal if you hit the garage, though, under its sloping roof and to the left of the long drainpipe between it and the hayshed. Obviously. (Just as obviously, the 'garage' never ever had a car in it, not in my lifetime.)
What sticks with me is my dad's sheer joy, the simple pleasure of kicking a ball, even as a grown-up.
Even now that's something I love to do too. No crushed can on the street is safe with me around.
The 'Charlton!' shout wasn't a reference to the south London soccer club.
My dad, like so many of his and subsequent generations in this part of this world, is a Manchester United fan. His brothers are/ were too.
Dad was emulating the famous rocket shots of Bobby Charlton, although at least he has never copied the infamous comb-over.
Baldness isn't the only trait dad has passed on to me.
Occasionally, immediately post-shot, he would wince in pain, sometimes even collapse to the ground.
My dad's had a knee in bits, damaged by jumping over a fence years before. That joie de vivre, that enthusiasm for life again.
I wrecked my right knee too, aged 17. As I've mentioned before, injury was all that stood between me and a glittering sporting career; that and limited talent and application.
Happily, the love of sport I learnt from my father remained with me.
More importantly, he allowed me to be myself, to make my own choices.
Had I been aware of 'the Shed End', perhaps I might have become a Chelsea fan. God forbid.
I really 'should' have become a Manchester United supporter. That's what a 'good' football fan/ parent supposedly does, 'makes' his offspring support the same team as him or her.
Instead, influenced by cousins, and – yes – Liverpool's success at the time, I fell in love with Manchester United's arch-rivals. In my defence, at least I wasn't stupid enough to be dazzled by a flash in the pan, like those sad sacks impressed by short-lived/ FA Cup success to support West Ham, or Spurs, or Blackburn Rovers.
I could never countenance a child of mine following anyone other than the Mighty Reds. Certainly not Manchester United. Nor Everton. Nor Chelsea. Nor Leeds, Arsenal, Spurs, not Manchester City after recent events, not even Nottingham Forest (be aware – I hold grudges forever).
Yet true love is letting your child be what they want to be (within reason and the law).
It's not much of a compliment but my dad is a far, far better man than I will ever be, in so many ways.
I don't remember a single slight or snide remark from my dad against Liverpool.
Even when – the horror, the horror – the execrable Roy Hodgson was briefly boss at Anfield, or on the many, many occasions that Manchester United lifted league title after title, my dad never gloated.
Admittedly I walked out of the house when Cantona scored that late winner in the 1996 FA Cup Final. Sometimes discretion is the better part of love.
I do remember him comforting me after the shock of hearing on the car radio that Dinamo Tbilisi had knocked the Reds out of the European Cup in 1979. Where even was Georgia?
(In those days my mum, who comes from a Spurs-supporting family, was pretending to be a Forest fan, mostly to tease me. She converted to the true faith eventually, and became more rabid than me, but enough about her, she'll get her own column soon.)
My dad must have inadvertently influenced me to become a sports reporter, though. I certainly have inherited his cynicism, if not his way with words, his turn of phrase.
His 'support' for United has always been demanding. Even when they were crushing all before them, in England and in Europe, my dad could find something to criticise them for, something to moan about.
Not just an armchair critic, dad is a sofa cynic. Lying with his feet higher than his head, he brutally dissects the shortcomings of Manchester United match after match. To be fair, he's not biased – he finds flaws in the current Liverpool team too, just not in my hearing.
Motorsport is my dad's real love, but again he never forced me to follow in his tyre-tracks, allowing me to stick to real sport, with balls.
My brother and I were taken to the North-West 200, but after it clashed with the 1980 FA Cup Final that was it for me. At least that saved me from becoming a Hammer.
My dad taught me hard lessons too – literally. Learning to ride a bicycle took place in that yard, gravel and all, even though there were fields right beside it. Well, you might be allowed in them if the hay had been cut, but otherwise don't even think about damaging the grass.
Although I'm one of five children born inside just over four years of each other (including twins) there were three girls, none of whom were particularly sporty. And my brother ran the roads, in a gallivanting sense, rather than ran around with me.
So on any dry evening, even on the less damp ones, I'd find myself on my own, kicking a ball towards those garage doors.
The balls I burst with wayward shots onto barbed wire were always replaced. In time. The hard deflated ones taught technique as well as the value of money.
My dad was often out and about at nights, but those times when he joined me, showed me how to really hit a shot, were magical.
Unlike the evening light, those memories will never fade.
Spending money on your kids can be good, but spending time with them is much better.
Hopefully your parents teach you good lessons too, including letting you think for yourself.
Sentimentality is not my style but, in return, do just one little thing: now and again, tell them that you love them.
