Back in the dark ages, when I was first sighted in short pants, I began a great love that has persisted to this day, a love of Association Football. As distinct from the majority code in my home state of NSW, it was played with a round ball, principally on the ground. I began watching highlights from the UK on the TV and in my last year of primary school, signed up for a local club. I wasn't much good at first but improved under the tutelage of some excellent mentors. But I digress.

Just about every boy coming into the first bloom of English football needed to have a team to support. My mother's side of the family comes from Staines, just west of London. So a London club would have been fine. I was a fan of The Beatles so a Merseyside team was also an option. Two things conspired, however, to settle on a far less glamorous club than I might have chosen. Not the Liverpool's, Manchester's or Arsenal's for me, no, but rather, a humble side from the Lancashire. Oldham AFC.

Those two things were these. I found out that a relative on my grandfather's side had played for OAFC in the 1950's and had also been a groundsman at Boundary Park thereafter. Secondly, my Welsh 5th grade primary teacher, Mr Oldland, once joked that he were going to play football across the (Welsh) border, it would probably be with Oldham Athletic. He never said why but I suppose it was the similarity of names. It's even odder when I recall he seemed to be a big rugby fan.

So it is that I have seen Oldham rise and fall over these five decades. They languish now in League Two but have recently acquired a new manager, one Harry Kewell. I wish the former Socceroo well and a stonking good season for The Latics in 2020 and 2021.