Nedved Juniors and the Temple of Doom

This post is about my two boys, however there is a bit of a problem. Due to new British legislation I am not actually allowed to reveal the names of my children to anyone who has not had a Criminal Records Bureau check. Okay, that's not actually true (although it might soon be). Still, it seems prudent not to give their real names, not so much for security reasons, but to give them the option of denying anything I write as they grow older.

My solution is to give them some cumbersome nicknames. After my first child was born one of my work colleagues referred to him only as 'Nedved Junior,' so it seems appropriate for purposes of this blog to call them 'Big Nedved Junior' and 'Little Nedved Junior.' A bit awkward, but it will do.

Big Nedved Junior is seven years old. He is somewhat shy and has an artistic temperament. He also has a somewhat obsessive tendency to remember statistics and facts about his interests (if you ever meet him just ask him to explain his Gormiti figure collection). In twenty years he will probably make an excellent football program editor.

Little Nedved Junior is both the family stoic and the family comic. In his first year of school a fellow pupil threw a bucket of water on him forcing him to change into his P.E. kit for the day. Mrs Nedved asked him if this made him upset. He said, 'No, it made me wet.' His favourite jokes usually involve farting and for some reason most days he tries to dress every morning without wearing pants (forcing Mrs Nedved and I to pull back his trousers for inspection before the school run). He is five.

When the boys were first born I didn't have any real interest in football. I was following cricket mostly, but as time went on I realised I was exposing myself to some real danger. Football totally dominates the sporting scene in the UK. I knew I could try to get both boys interested in cricket too, but I knew the chances were good that I would fail. What's more, I realised that if I did not introduce the boys to a football club of my choice the chances were that they would fall in love with a club of their own choosing - and that choice could be decidedly inconvenient. Young boys adopt teams for a variety of reasons that seldom rely on geographical proximity. They might like the white horse on the Ipswich Town badge. They might fall for the black and amber stripes of Hull City. Or, disastrously, they might drift into fandom of a 'big four' club in a bout of infantile glory-hunting.

Alarm bells began to ring when two years ago Big Nedved Junior asked me if I was a Manchester United supporter. He was perplexed when I said no. 'Why wouldn't you want to support a team that wins everything?' he asked. It was a clarion call that demanded action.

Within a couple weeks Big Nedved Junior was bundled into the car and frogmarched into Twerton Park to see Bath City take on Havant & Waterlooville for a Good Friday bank holiday match. Although I enjoyed the game, he was miserable, cold and bored. I tried to perk him up at halftime by buying him a portion of chips and a bottle of Coke. What I did not realise was for a six year-old, being given a bottle of Coke of your own is like winning the lottery, and that he would burst into the door at home and announce to his horrified mother and jealous little brother that he had been given 'A WHOLE BOTTLE OF COKE JUST FOR ME!' Despite this amazing bonanza, though, he would not return for love or money for many months. He associated Bath City with being cold. And he still didn't understand why I would support a team that didn't win everything.

Little Nedved Junior went to last season's home opener against Welling United for his first ever match. Being August there was no chance of cold, but being only four years old there was even less chance of him enjoying it properly. As it turned out practically no one enjoyed the match as City ended up at the wrong end of a 4-0 pummelling. We stayed till the bitter end, but only with the aid of lollies and crisps from the tea bar to keep him happy.

So far I had managed to alienate both of my children from my newly adopted team. They were not impressed when I put up a team photo in their room above a Spider-Man poster, and they were not interested in my accounts of the matches I went to. Things were looking pretty bleak, until one day Bath City defender Gethin Jones stepped in.

That November Jones scored in the FA Trophy match against East Thurrock. It was a fluke goal -- a misdirected cross that ended up in the net. When I told the boys about the accidental goal they were enraptured. They thought it was the funniest thing they had ever heard. A few minutes later Big Nedved Junior went up to his mother, interrupted her, and said, 'Do you want to hear something really funny?' Both of them learned Gethin Jones' name (although Little Nedved Junior invariably referred to him as Indiana Jones). When I finally got them back to a match the following January they both wanted me to point out who their new hero was. They cheered whenever Gethin got the ball. Success!

A lot of progress has been made since then. They both have replica kits and Little Nedved Junior sleeps with his Bath City scarf. In the warm-up before the match against Lewes Big Nedved Junior was able to correctly identify Sekani Simpson, Jim Rollo (well, he got the 'Rollo' part), Matt Coupe, Lewis Hogg, Kaid Mohamed, and, of course Gethin Jones. I was especially pleased that he recognised Mohamed because before that match he had only seen him on the YouTube clips we had watched together.

My work is not complete yet. Although they are usually attentive for the entire first half, they still get restless not long after the interval. Overall, though, my project to brainwash, errr, I mean share my passion for Bath City with them has been a success. There is no danger of my being begged to take them to Ipswich or Hull. And if you ask them, Gethin 'Indiana' Jones, is still their favourite player.