Buckaroo to Boxing
Competitive Buggernuts
Buggernuts loves doughnuts
Buggernuts or David Attenborough
By the time I was born my home was already outnumbered by men. With two older brothers and a rock steady dad I have been blessed (haunted) with three strong male role models my whole life. A couple of months ago my brother Gareth shared his journey with #FUCancer. This week Buggernuts takes the spotlight. And for those who are not familiar with who or what a 'Buggernuts' is - he is my one and only dad.
Descending from Welsh and Cornish stock, it would be safe to say that my pedigree is Celtic in nature. This can mean I am volatile, slightly self-deprecating and hugely sentimental to the point of being maudlin. The sense of hiraeth - understood by so many Welshmen - is especially emphasised in those of us who are deemed to be ex-pats, so much so it can be over-powering. Crying, therefore, comes naturally to me even at my exalted age. There is no rhyme or reason when the throat will tighten and the tears roll; obvious times like the birth of a child or grandchild, the death of a close family member or friend are balanced by witnessing an unheralded act of kindness, a display of sportsmanship, the last night of a school show or the end of something really meaningful can all cause me to swallow hard, develop a lump in the throat and the eyes to redden.
Indeed as I write this I have just returned from accompanying my three-year old grandson...well, nearly four...to his first rugby international, passing over the family baton as it were. I have had a very fortunate life - a loving wife, three great kids, two marvellous grandsons and an extended family of which I am inordinately proud. My family share my love of sport. My two sons and I chat on a level playing field about rugby and cricket and rugby and football and rugby and athletics and also rugby. We have been involved in the sport at various levels over a considerable passage of time. I also have a daughter!Heather and I have a close relationship built around polar opposites; if I say white she will answer black; if I say yes she will say no and if I suggest in she will respond with out. You get the picture.
We are also very competitive and the ten days we spent together in Fuerteventura were metaphorically quite bloody. Tennis, table tennis, pool, putting, paddle boarding were all undertaken with a bitter edge with no quarter asked or given. However there is also a trust and an understanding which exists between us. Needless to say I am extremely proud of her, even more so as, competition notwithstanding, she frequently asks for my thoughts, views, opinions and ideas on the important matters in her life. She will listen and appreciate my honesty and candour regardless of whether they conflict with hers or not. I am comfortable pointing out flaws and pitfalls in her projects knowing that they will not be taken as criticism but as a helpful and constructive insight. However, Heather has made me cry! I cried when she told me of her selection to play hockey for Scotland at age group level; I cried when I saw her take the field against Ireland. I cried when I saw her in her wedding dress (what father wouldn't!) and I cried making THAT speech which, as dads we all hope to make one day but strangely, in our heart of hearts, don't really want to. If friends and family are to be believed I cried throughout that day as I had at Owains's wedding some years earlier.
I did not cry at Heather's diagnosis. Heather was obviously shaken but she was also strong, matter of fact, committed, driven and was challenging me to be the same. As Angela has said Heather was making it easier for all of us. Tears were not what was wanted, I had a role to play, admittedly a subordinate one made up of driving, carrying, hurrying up and waiting. It is a role all father's play but in this case the focus was sharper, more intense. Sometimes I wasn't very good, to the point where Heather implored my wife not to leave me alone with her; other times I was great like the day I supported her carrying the Queen's Baton around Leith. Curiously these two days are separated by twenty-four hours! But I didn't cry!
Heather gave me the inner strength to face the situation head on. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?I did cry when I first heard she was in remission and will continue so to do. In the meantime I will do my damnedest to beat her at everything I can - from Scrabble to skittles, tiddly winks to tennis, Buckaroo to boxing. Heather wouldn't expect anything less!