Welcome To CanadianBlade

Thanks for popping by.

I thought I would make the first blog post one that explains what CanadianBlade is and what it is about.

Firstly, I live in Canada. So that covers half of it.

Secondly, I was born in Sheffield, England.

Home of the Sheffield United Blades. The grandest football club of them all.

Hence, CanadianBlade.

Nomenclature covered, why did I start this blog?

I lost my Dad at the end of 2018. He was a top Bladesman of over 70 years. He took me to my first game at Bramall Lane - the oldest standing football ground in the WORLD - in 1972, when I was just a wee lad of two. On his shoulders I am told... I can't remember myself, being two and all.

It was a glorious time for Sheffield United - the days of Tony Currie. I was told Len Badger lived near top of our road. My Dad was a Blade through and through.

But he also wanted to forge a life for his family, and made a tough decision to move to Canada in 1975. I'm not going to prattle on about why, or just how difficult it would have been to pluck three young children under 5 - including one infant - and move to a foreign country where you know nobody to start anew. But I will say that I have always seen it as a heroic act. My Dad and my Mum possess strength that I'm not sure I've got to yet, at near 50 years old.

To be honest, we became near completely Canadian. All of us. We embraced our new life, and for the most part, we adhered to Canadian culture. We played hockey. We watched hockey. We love hockey.

But my Dad and I always had a special relationship on the footie pitch. Not a verbal one. A silent, mutual respect, that in many ways forged our entire relationship when I was growing up.

He was the best coach I ever had. In any sport, on any level.

I don't know anyone that I played with, that wouldn't say the exact same thing. I type through tear-stained eyes, that he had a kindness about him, that even a fiery competitive nature couldn't override. It was such a special combination in a coach. In a man. In a father.

I was a decent player, played on some pretty good teams, and I was fortunate to get to spend my youth touring around all over hells acres playing footie, and hanging out with my Dad. My whole family for that matter.

Footie was always an integral part of the glue that bound us.

As the years passed, no matter how Canadian we became, my Dad and I always shared a great love for part of our past - the Blades. We lived many miles apart for the better part of the last 20 years, and a lot of our "chat material" was them Blades.

"Did you catch the game?"

"What a screamer from Duffy today."

"Is Chris Wilder the second coming of Jesus Christ?"

"Billy Sharp is a machine."

My Dad fought a long fight against chronic heart disease. He lost that fight in September of 2018. He spent all of 2018 defying odds to stay alive for the World Cup. He didn't even make any bones about it. England's run was fabulous. Dad was jubilant at their success, despite falling short.

At one point I joked to him that I wanted to be on the phone with him should the unthinkable happen and England win the World Cup - because I figured he'd be done and check out. He tried to make a joke, but I know it was all heart when he responded that:

"If Harry Maguire and Billy Sharp could grow wings and fly me to heaven, that would be perfect."

Ah, he was Bladesman to the core.

The last gift Dad gave me was a United jersey.

The last thing we did together was watch the Blades play the piggies.

I miss him so much.

And I miss talking to him about the Blades.

That's why I started the blog. As a surrogate therapy aide.

My posts are all to my Dad. I know he's never going to answer them, but I hope that he can see them. And knows that I love and miss him. Every day.

Coyraww Dad.