THIS is a tale of father and son and it begins at the McGeady family home on the southside of Glasgow and with a video tape that in 10 minutes tells you so much about the making of Aiden McGeady.
It was filmed in the early 1990s when he was eight, when he sat before the camera of aspiring film-maker and friend of his dad's, Malcolm McKissock, and spoke about his life's dream, how he would like to play for Celtic (and then for Liverpool), how he loves John Collins and Pierre van Hooijdonk (because they take great free-kicks) and how great his dad is (because he's there all the time and watches him play).
There is glorious footage of the boy performing on a red dirt track in the Gorbals, a slow motion film of him weaving his way through the traffic of a seven-a-side game for the Govanhill Cubs, a slaloming run and a thing of beauty that finishes with him rolling his foot over the top of the ball to deceive the goalkeeper before calmly passing into an empty goal.
Then there is John, the father. John is on the film, too. But he's not looking to the promise of tomorrow like Aiden. He's thinking about the what-might-have-beens of his past. He's talking about his own time in football, his departure to Sheffield United at 16, his terrible homesickness, his five years as a winger and his injuries that left him with a busted knee-cap and a broken career in his mid-20s. Mostly, he is talking about his father, about the problems they had, about the lack of interest he displayed in John's own football life. When you connect it to the close bond between himself and Aiden, the poignancy and relevance of it is obvious.
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