Hunting Tigers

Those under the age of, say 35, may find it hard to comprehend but in the pre-social media and gadget era one of the most treasured possessions of youth was the autograph book. 

The what? I can hear some tech-savvy dependants ask with incredulity but it is true. 

The humble shop bought or home made book, often multi coloured in sections through its pages, was the constant companion of teenagers and not just those actively seeking the stars and celebrities of the day. 

My own autograph book was a rather flamboyant one for a 10 year old lad. It had a padded floral front cover and gawdy lining which was noticed by my peer group with some inevitable remarks of a non-politically correct nature along the lines of it being, put mildly, a bit effeminate. This was a fairly regular and consistent form of language for the 1970’s. 

I just didn’t care though as I had bought it with my own pocket money and it was a very personal thing, perhaps even my first proper possession. 

The first signatures were my own. You would be hard pressed to find anyone who has not spent a good few hours in practicing their own signature just in readiness for becoming a noted personality and it is a tricky process to achieve a convincingly grown up and legible one. 

The main purpose for the autograph book was to collect the signatures of teachers and staff at that momentous occasion of the last day at junior school before the summer vacation and the prospect of resuming education as the small-fry at the huge and impersonal secondary modern in September. 

I never actually got the autograph of anyone famous apart from, I seem to recall, the Bishop of Lincoln who was a bit taken aback by my approach with book and biro whilst he was on a visit to our local parish church. 

The popularity of the autograph book evidently suffered with the development and widespread availability of the mobile phone as well as the almost intimate association possible with the famous and infamous through an almost hourly update of their moods, behaviour and often inane thoughts on their managed Twitter feeds and on Instagram and other social media platforms. To me the mystique and worth of celebrity status has been irreparably cheapened by 24-7 access. 

The selfie has taken the place of a good old physical signature, of course  that assumes that the current gaggle of wannabee personalities can actually write in the first place. 

My well founded cynicism was however tempered just this week with an open day for supporters at the stadium of our local team, Hull City. 

The invitation was to attend at a training session on the beautifully manicured pre-season grass of the pitch followed by an opportunity to meet the full first team squad.

It was a free event and so I volunteered to go and take along with me the sons of a friend, aged 5 and 9. They were in their replica kits although the players named on the shirts had been sold off in the close-season as part of a major shake-up including a new manager, the first Russian in English football. 

The event was attended by about 2000 children, parents and guardians keen to get in close proximity to an otherwise cosseted and chaperoned collection of wealthy athletes. 

Just one hour into the three hour timetable I could see parents in conversation with their youngsters about getting into a good position to take advantage of the meet and greet opportunity. Gradually a straggling line grew just inside the low perimeter wall of the pitchside with jostling children as well as a surprisingly well attired and made-up group of young mothers. 

This move was quickly dispersed by the club organisers who gave directions for an orderly queue to form in the stadium concourse to allow small clusters to be led down to the long line of table tops and chairs where the players were to be sat after completing their training session. 

What caught my attention and made me strangely nostalgic was that the majority of the children and a few of their mothers were clutching a proper and traditional autograph book. 

These, over the final hour of the open day, were passed in turn along the line of players who with care and respect filled the pages with well practiced thickly inked scrawls and squiggles. 

I could only stand and stare at this wonderful sight. 

I did however have some sympathy for one of the Hull City squad who along with the whole stadium heard a small girl, no more than 7 years old, point and shout out to hear father who was way up in the stand more than once “ who is that dad, who is that?” 

You never know, that ego-crushing anonymity could spur that player onto great things in the coming season. 

Who are you?