It's Saturday, and the time is 4:38 PM. The year is 1996, and Tony Adams has been wrongly shown a red card against Newcastle Utd. Which means that one of the seven surefire selections is about to go to hell. Damn! Today was supposed to be six half-guards. Not five. 64kr instead of 32kr. Why did I have to blow half my weekly salary on football magazines Match and Shoot, as well as a school bowl and a Litago at the bakery. Argh…..
The time we will never get back
We've all been there. Most likely it was the one that started it all. The interest in football. The interest in English football. The mystery, the joy and the anticipation. The pen that entered the results as they pinged on the TV. And the disappointment, the despair and the sadness that once again there were only 8 correct.
Our pretended blows to the tabletop were a poor copy of Dad's real rage. He had played a system for 128kr. His anger was justified. Colored glasses to hide what he was drinking, colored glasses to hide his mood. The evening depended on the outcome of the betting slip.
Because there was always a team from a Tolkien-like place that had to mess it up. Notts County could suddenly take points from Wolverhampton, Stoke could beat Chelsea and you could swear that Norwich themselves would mess it up against their neighbours Ipswich.
So we put it away. Even though it had been there since March 13, 1948, it was gone from consciousness with a stroke of the pen, the day the odds booklet arrived. These were new times. We rolled up our blazer sleeves, and cycled so fast that we got wind in our hockey gear. Life as a teenager, accompanied by the music of Alphaville, hand in hand with Norsk Tipping, was the height of happiness. We were supposed to be young forever.
Because even though everything was mostly about Sensible Soccer and Championship Manager on the Amiga 500, everything was forgotten during the betting match on Saturdays. The world revolved around these two hours. The match that decided whether the following school week would be hell, or a week where you could put on an Arsenal shirt and walk with your head held high. Did we lose anything the day we threw away the betting slip?
The betting slip – resurrected
We are writing 2025, and I have made a small attempt to pass on the tradition to my son. Theodor, 11 years old. I have bought him a school bowl and Litago, we have found a table at the back of the room, and found blank coupons and new ballpoint pens. I have tried frantically to get him to relive the magic, but is it possible? The betting coupon does not come in Reels format. It requires patience. Perseverance. Courage. It must be over and done with for something so old-fashioned?
But, no. It lives. And with us it lives and thrives.
