DOG TAILS 4:HE’S FOOTBALL CRAZY, HE’S FOOTBALL MAD

I figure that Mac’s parents were absolutely useless sheepdogs, which is why he and his siblings ended up for sale in commercial kennels in Nottingham. Despite all the fancy names on the pedigree certificate, nowhere did it say champion and there was no mention of any forbears ever competing in “One Man and his Dog”. Though born to working stock on a hill farm in Wales (reputedly), Mac had no herding instinct whatsoever. He’d walk through a field of sheep with a stick in his mouth oblivious to their existence. Mac’s herding gene had been transmuted with the football gene. He watched more football than John Motson. He was damn good at it, too.
He always had a collection of about a dozen tennis balls on the go at any one time, all found or stolen from people’s gardens. Nowadays, dog walkers have these egg cup-like things on the end of a stick which hurl the ball great distances with little effort on your part. Also, you don’t have to continuously handle a ball covered in dog spittle. Mac’s philosophy was that sticks are for fetching and balls for catching. Running around like a dummy chasing a ball was mongrel sport.
In his prime, from a distance of about twenty yards and within a radius of several feet, it was virtually impossible to throw a tennis ball past him. He would catch it every time, however hard it was thrown. He would be moving into position to make the catch the instant the ball left your hand. I’ve even seen him take a ball above his head with all four feet off the ground and make a complete somersault; such was the velocity of the ball upon impact.
He knew that concentration and keeping your eye on the ball were the keys to success. Once caught, he would bring it back immediately and place it in your hand or at your feet without any fuss. No holding on, no tugging games, no messing about. Playing ball was a serious business and nothing would distract him.
He played with a full-sized football in a similar way, but from a closer distance. Like a goalkeeper he would try and stop your shot. We didn’t use jumpers for goalposts, it wasn’t that serious, but the front lawn was just the right size for him to stand at one end and me at the other. Having blocked the shot he would dribble the ball half way back and then pass it the rest of the way with a powerful flick of his snout before taking up his stance once more.
His party trick involved me tossing the ball up from a distance of about ten feet. He would position himself directly behind the ball and rise to meet it as it fell, thus getting power into the header. I would side-foot it back and he would return it with his head. Passing the ball back and forth in this manner a dozen times before one of us lost control was commonplace. On occasion we’d reach twenty or more before it hit the ground. The world record was 36. We used to attract some fair old crowds on the recreation ground.
I don’t care what anyone says. To attain such high scores on a regular basis would be impossible unless Mac fully understood the purpose of the game. He did everything in his power to keep the ball in the air for as long as possible.

How his passion for watching football on television came about, I don’t know. He was an avid fan of Match of the Day long before he came to live with me. I just know that it was the roar of the crowd that attracted his attention to the screen. So it wasn’t just football. He liked rugby, volleyball (as seen in the photo), basketball and even snooker. He’d happily watch the balls roll into the pockets for hours on end, but it was the more vocal and fast moving ball games which gripped him.
In those days, goalkeepers had to continuously bounce the ball before they kicked it. Every time they did this Mac tried to snatch the ball out of the goalie’s hands, slamming into the screen with such force it was too risky to place ornaments on the top. Darts was another watchable programme – men throwing sticks. I kid you not; we used to video three-hour’s worth of football and play it back whilst we were out. I absolutely guarantee Mac would still be laid in front of the telly when we got in.
He also growled at dogs and cats on adverts and was a great fan of Natural History programmes. A night in front of the telly was a way of life for Mac. If I’d owned a fish tank as well, he would never have left the house.
The funniest episode occurred one evening when we got home from a walk. Football was on the telly and as we entered the lounge Dad told Mac his dinner was ready. He went straight through into the kitchen to eat. Someone scored and the crowd erupted. Mac flew into the room, crashed into the box and puked a mouthful of partly digested dog meat onto the screen. It stuck there like a snowball on a wall.
‘That is gross,’ said dad. ‘Clean it off.’
‘You clean it off,’ I replied.
Mac, realising his view was impeded, took matters into his own hands and began to lick away the stodgy mess, smearing it all over the screen, leaving me with no choice but to fetch the dish cloth.
Vision restored, Mac settled down to watch the game. After about five minutes his stomach began to remind him he was half way through dinner. He started to glance over his shoulder, calculating if he had time to nip into the kitchen and grab a few more mouthfuls. But then the goalie would pick up the ball and he had to turn his attention back to the game. This went on for fifteen minutes, getting up, walking to the door, changing his mind, coming back, laying down, whining in frustration, getting up again. Thank God for half time.