Quite obviously, it is all down to me

As I was lying at the foot of the basement stairs a couple of weeks ago, having fallen following a short bout of self-congratulation over a rather innocuous DIY job (reinserting a screen into a window so the mosquitoes couldn’t get in), I looked up and, amid the howls of anguish, caught sight of the photo and mat that Mrs. Ottawacker had chosen to use at our wedding as a means of capturing messages from those in attendance. The mat, suitably framed, lies at the foot of our basement stairs, but is such a part of the furniture that I rarely look at it. When I do, the youthful eyes and slimline features generally serve as a constant reminder of effects of wine and gravity; I am, therefore, on the rare moments I look at it, constantly reminded that I could have done a slightly better job of looking after myself. If you read the messages on the mat, you’d also think Mrs. Ottawacker could have done a better job – in choosing her husband. “You’re punching well above your weight again”, “how the hell have you managed it?”, and “who says hypnosis is short term?” are among the more repeatable comments. And that was just my family.  
 
Examining the mat on a subsequent day, I was also a little saddened by how many of those “well-wishers” have disappeared from my life. Some have – inevitably over 20 years – died; others have moved on. But some are still around, and it is only down to a lack of effort that we don’t see each other any more. Life is busy; time is precious; and, of course, people have other priorities. However, I have to admit to being absolutely horrified to see the names of Shawn and Sarah on the mat. Not because I hadn’t wanted to invite them, but rather because they returned to Ottawa following a diplomatic posting to Poland in 2020 (or thereabouts) and, what with Covid and the like, I still hadn’t got around to seeing them. Then, once Covid had gone, good intentions had disappeared up in smoke, as Mrs. Ottawacker and I had volunteered to spend every minute God sent on running to and from soccer practices, looking after parents, raising a son, earning money, and padding my waistline. It was now 2025 and I still hadn’t seen them. Something had to change.
 
Having tracked down their phone number, I sent a text. And after a period of “how are you”s and “what has been going on?”s, I arranged to let them invite me out to their place to watch the Newcastle vs. Liverpool Premier League match. They are, quite apart from being lovely, intelligent, funny and tasteful people, manic Liverpool fans. Despite this, it was with a certain level of trepidation that I headed out into the rural wilds of Stittsville to see them. “Why trepidation?”, I hear you ask. Well, for those of you that aren’t superstitious, you’ll never understand. But for those of you who are – you’ll be well aware that my pre-match routine and watching habits (two pieces of toast for the pre-match meal, lucky socks, and no sex the night before) are the only reason Liverpool FC have been on an almost unparalleled streak of success. How this impacts the team, I am not quite sure. But there is a clear correlation and it is obvious that going to watch the game in a new place would place a severe strain on Liverpool’s mojo. (Shawn and I actually had this conversation before I agreed to come and watch at his house: he is currently an advisor for a high-ranking politician; Sarah seems to run a medical service single-handed; I am—as you will have noticed—an intelligent and rational man. None of us questioned the fact that our actions would have an impact on the on-field performance of 11 men in a city 4,000 km away from where we were. You see, we know these things.)
 
Having arrived at their house and been given a guided tour (and a beautiful house it is too), we went down to their specially developed screening room to watch the match. When I watch the game, I sit in front of a computer screen and shout obscenities at the referee; they sit in reclining chairs, with a well-stocked bar ten paces away, and watch it on a screen that could possibly enable viewing from outer space. You can see the hairs in people’s noses. I am not entirely convinced that it is not interactive; I felt as if I could walk towards the screen and disappear into the crowd, become one with an alternative reality, like Lucy in the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I didn’t put the theory to the test, not least because their huge bulldog Piper was lying in the way and was busy destroying what looked like a life-size model of Eddie Howe. Wouldn’t want to confuse him.
 
Anyway, we had a brief catch up and then settled down to the main event. For the first 30 minutes, I couldn’t help but notice they were looking at me rather suspiciously out of the corners of their eyes. Liverpool were not playing very well (or maybe my lucky socks needed washing and they were just catching the odd whiff?) Then, Liverpool scored, and we all agreed I wasn’t a complete Jonah. When Liverpool scored their second, I was almost like one of the family. “You can definitely come again,” said Sarah. “We were a little worried for a while…” She didn’t get to finish the sentence as Newcastle pulled a goal back. Then they were pushing for the equaliser. The accusatory looks continued. Then Newcastle did equalise – with only a couple of minutes left in the game. “Well,” said Shawn. Ominously. Sarah, more tellingly, said nothing. Even Piper got up from his beheaded Eddie and turned his back to me. Clearly, this would be a one-off invitation.
 
When the referee announced 11 minutes of stoppage time, things were not looking hopeful. But, then, Liverpool’s manager Arne Slot did something unexpected. He brought on a 16-year-old kid for the last 10 minutes in an effort to turn things around. (What in the name of God was he thinking? The kid had just had his GCSE results. He hadn’t hit puberty yet. How is this going to help?) But, unbelievably, it did help. More than that, it worked. With almost the last kick of the game, Rio Ngumoha (I’ve talked about him before) smashed the ball into the net to give Liverpool a well-deserved victory. Maybe it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with my lucky socks? Who knows? All I can say is that Shawn and Sarah were delighted that I had come to their house and, once they had stopped rubbing my stomach like a Lucky Buddha, said I could come again. One thing is certain, I won’t wait 20 years.
 
So, happy that I had played a significant part in the day’s entertainment, I drove back to Ottawa. Not all heroes wear capes.