Keeping with the hippy vibe, we feel centred as we leave Golan at Greengo’s. We have met great people there, the best – people that reinforce your belief in humanity, give you hope for the future, too many to name – our chakras plumbed. Golan has implored us to stay so The Wife can cook great north Indian food for the guests. If we had the time, we would have.

I’m sat on the minibus next to a young English woman (Hannah), travelling alone, a bit prim and proper, looks to be nervously clinging to a comfort blanket. The sort of young woman I worry about, a lone traveller in a country with a corrupt police force, and what looks like, a comfort blanket for company! We strike up a conversation, she has recently finished uni where our daughter is about to start (Southampton) and in a similar degree, Environmental Studies. I have prejudged her, I admit that. Massively as it transpires. She has just finished her basic training at Sandhurst Military Academy! One of 12 women out of 200 officers.



For those of you that don’t know what Sandhurst is, it’s the top officer military training academy in Britain, the sort of place only the aristocracy used to get in, this is not for the personnel that are fired out of cannons at the enemy! I ask her open-ended questions about the army and her training, she’s going into logistics and transport, a wise move I sense. I’m a little shocked when I ask her about her views on the new trident nuclear submarines, that will end up costing somewhere just south of £100 billion, she has no idea what I’m talking about. ‘That’s why you don’t have enough bullets, bombs, boots and Brasso’, I inform her, but she returns a look that suggests I’m both northern, sarcastic and a touch simple – ‘two out of three ain’t bad!’.

We are on our way to Flores, en route to the Mayan ruins at Tikal. We stop into a McDonalds to give the driver a rest and for me to by a McFlurry. When I return, I’m automatically anxious as I see Hannah on her phone, she has tapped into the free Wi-Fi the restaurant of the world has to offer. My team, our family’s team: Hull FC, are playing in the Challenge Cup final at Wembley in London, it’s a massive game, we have never won the final at the national stadium although we have made it there many times to be humbled and humiliated and other such annoying adjectives. So, I don’t really expect us to win against a strong Warrington team. I have even debated flying back for the final, then flying straight back to Belize even though there’s no direct flight there. It would cost me about £1200 and two days of my life for a game that will last less than two-hours, that’s what fanaticism can do to you, brought up in a city on the 4 R’s: reading, writing, arithmetic and rugby league! (and alliteration dyslexia!) It is by my calculations still half time, I’m nervous as I log into the BBC sports site. But I’ve miss calculated, the game has just finished, and unbelievably we’ve bloody gone and won at Wembley for the first time ever: 12-10.



Danny Houghton, a man-of-steel, has made the most amazing last-ditch tackle, his 52nd of the game, that will make him a local hero until the day we all die. It means nothing to the outside world beyond the city walls of West Hull, but it means the world to some, me included, my brother, my dad, my friends, the list goes on, that will be fighting back tears, or unable to control their emotions. I’m on my feet yelling, uncontrollably, not for effect, because I honestly never thought it would happen in my lifetime. I’ve been five times to watch them in the final there and never seen them win. A few months later Danny Houghton is in a pub in Beverley, a friend is having a book launch of the momentous campaign and Danny and my dad have a photo taken together with the Challenge Cup gleaming between them. I never know what to get my dad for Christmas, he feigns gratitude at what I consider well thought-out presents, and then puts the present in a drawer. They ring a few hours after they have returned to their home from our house at Christmas, and I say to my mum.

“Make sure he puts that framed photo on the wall, won’t you.”

“No need, it’s already up!”



My dad, Brian, The Rugby League Challenge Cup, and Danny Houghton.

This is what winning at Wembley means to our family, to stand next to a working-class hero and touch greatness.

The German, the Dutch couple, the Swedish guy, the Brits have no idea why I’m so ecstatic about a minority sport, but it’s my sport, and more importantly, it’s my team that has won for the very first time at the national stadium. This is what it means to be a sport’s fan, if you don’t know, you might have got off lightly. My football team of the last forty years is Manchester City, I will say no more.
We arrive in Flores, a beautiful isthmus jutting into Lake Petén Itzá. We eat and drink watching the sun sink over the lake. The Wife falls asleep while I watch the last ten minutes of the game I should have witnessed in the flesh, just to double check the result. Then I set about watching the full version of the match I have missed, that some benevolent soul has placed on Youtube. Danny Houghton is still making that last ditched tackle, and he will be making it forever and ever, amen!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2EsQ...

Next Time: Mr Tikal

@thewritingIMP www.ianmpindar.com



Ian M Pindar writes books, and also about himself in the third person sometimes, so it looks as though he has a large team of dedicated professionals working around him. His latest book is in fact a novella and has the strange title of: ‘Foot-sex of the Mind’. It is not a Mills and Boon, but about finding out what is important in life far too late.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_n...