“Dad, come and look at this! They have given Jonny Bairstow out.” It has been lovely to see our 12-year-old son enjoy cricket this summer. After the controversy in the second Ashes Test last Sunday, I was on full dad duty. I went to pick Joe up for a youth weekend away in North Yorkshire. He and his friends cheered in the back of the car on the two-hour drive home as they watched England claim a much-needed victory in the third Test against Australia.
I feared the worst when Ben Stokes went for 13. I saw the Ashes slipping away but step forward Harry Brook, Chris Woakes and Mark Wood to set things up for the next instalment of a brilliant summer of Ashes cricket next week. “It’s at Old Trafford isn’t it, dad?” said Joe as we had a quick pre-school breakfast together the other day.
This might sound daft, but the fact that he is interested means a lot to me. I was a sport-obsessed child. I played tennis, table tennis and football for my county but was never good enough to make it as a pro. I am now a scratch golfer, but I was always better at talking about sport than playing it.
As a boy, all my dreams were filled with a combination of superstars like Boris Becker, Nick Faldo and Graham Gooch. I had all the posters from Shoot magazine lined up on my bedside wall. I have never told Garth Crooks that I slept next to his face for about five years and, such was my obsession with Glenn Hoddle, that I asked my parents to change my name; I was determined to become a Glenn and, at the very least, I wanted Dann with two n’s.
At the peak of his powers, I would dress up in full snooker outfit to watch Steve Davis weave his magic at the Crucible. We had one of those snooker tables that went on top of our dining table, and I would set up the balls to match Davis’s pots on the telly. During the game I would sit down on the sofa in full waistcoat and bow tie and, when Steve cleaned his cue, I would do the same. He had a proper cue towel, I borrowed one of my mum’s face flannels.
I was the kid who would parrot the famous lines of commentary: “And here comes Linford Christie!”; “Gunnell goes for gold… and Gunnell gets the gold”; “Where were the Germans? And frankly… who cares?”. When I was 11 years old, I wrote a letter to Des Lynam saying “Dear Des, I love your moustache, how do I get your job?”.
I have shed so many tears over sporting disappointments and just the thought of Derek Redmond and his dad is enough to send me over the edge. I loved being a full-time commentator. There is something magical about describing something momentous. You are constantly reaching for words to match the mood whether it’s euphoric or tragic.
On the radio, you are the eyes of those listening and on TV you simply provide the page on which the script is written. The best commentators never see themselves as the stars. The action is king. You are just following the music and playing second fiddle.
I could take you back right now to the seat in The Tavern On The Green in Pound Hill, Crawley where I watched Teddy Sheringham provide that perfect pass for Alan Shearer to make it 3-0 in that infamous 4-1 win over the Dutch in Euro 96.
When Steady Teddy popped in the fourth, Martin Tyler pulled out the iconic, “It gets better, and better and better!”. Fourteen years later, when Shearer came on Football Focus and started his answer to my first question with “Well Dan…” the little kid inside me thought “the actual ALAN SHEARER knows my name”.
It’s wonderful to see so many people enjoying Wimbledon again this year. It was one of the first events I ever covered for BBC Sport. I remember being sent down to Henman Hill in 2008 to cover Andy Murray’s epic comeback against Richard Gasquet from two sets to love and 5-4 down. I was rushed down as Murray started to motor and they shouted over the radio that they needed us to fill 90 seconds between sets.
I hurriedly positioned myself alongside a bunch of women enjoying a picnic on the hill. As Murray won the third set, the commentator started to hand to me. The director came across talk back in my ear and said: “Dan, I’ve never worked with you before. There are over 13 million people watching… don’t f**k it up”. Thankfully I didn’t.
When I see my son cheering England on in the cricket, or kids queuing up outside the local tennis courts or preparing for a late-night knockabout in the park, I am filled with joy. Sport is wonderful. It can provide some pretty deep lows when things go wrong, but the highs – and there are plenty of them – will keep us going all summer long.
This week I have been…
Collecting… a camper van. We are a camping family. My wife is mildly obsessed with tents and no trip to Go Outdoors lasts less than two hours in our house. We always have to walk around the entire camping section but we’ve never had a camper van.I popped along to Camper King in Banbury this week, as we are trying out one of their Santorini models for a week, and it was like road-trip heaven. The choice of what you can put in them is wonderfully boggling – even a projector screen – and Joe cannot wait to sleep in the roof of the van.
Swifting… or at least my daughter has been. Our 16-year-old’s text messages don’t normally stray from “OK”. If she’s really feeling talkative, she sends the occasional emoji. For the last few weeks, she has been sending FULL CAPITAL LETTER MESSAGES about the fact that she had a pre-sale code for Taylor Swift tickets.
While I was looking at camper vans this week she rang, screaming down the phone that she was in the queue. She then called back 20 minutes later to scream that she had been successful so, while our son is enjoying the summer of 2023, our eldest daughter is already looking forward to next summer, the summer of Swift.
Riding… although I am not a horse person. I am a little scared of them, but this week I rode one for the first time as part of my Pennine Adventure with Helen Skelton. The riding school we went to in North Yorkshire gave me a lovely big brown stead called Roger. I had a chat with Roger before I got onboard and whispered to him about the time that I was covering The Grand National for the BBC and the winning horse – Mon Mome – tried to eat me as I was interviewing the stable hand (I may be exaggerating slightly). Anyway, Roger listened and, although I would still not call myself a horse person, I no longer fear the horse. You’ll be able to see Roger on Channel 5 later this year.