I was about 14 or 15 when this moment happened — though the details are hazy, the feeling is as sharp as if it were yesterday. My papa, my father’s father, was getting ready to head to a local football match with my dad and me. Normally, Saturday afternoons meant all of Dad’s sisters piling into my papa’s house, the chatter filling the rooms, and the day ending with a much-anticipated chippy dinner. But for some reason, that day was different — football was the plan.
We made our way to Cliftonhill to watch the mighty Albion Rovers. I couldn’t tell you now who they were playing or what the score was — in fact, I don’t even remember seeing a single goal. What I do remember, crystal clear, was the cold. Bone-deep, Scottish-winter cold. But more than that, I remember looking at my papa — the man I admired so deeply — and seeing him, as always, immaculately dressed: suit jacket, shirt, tie, an overcoat, a scarf… and that beautiful tweed trilby perched proudly on his head.
I tried that hat on once. It didn’t fit — my head was bigger than his — but I still remember how it felt to hold something that was so him. As the three generations of McCafferty men stood there shivering in what must surely be the coldest stadium in Scotland, it hit me: these are the days that last. Thirty years later, the score, the stats, the opponent — they all fade. What stays are the faces, the laughter, the connection.
Now that I’m a parent myself, I think about that a lot. I want to create golden days for my own child — moments she’ll carry with her long after I’m gone. Because every single day is an opportunity to create magic, to plant a memory that will bloom decades later.
And the funny thing? This whole wave of memory came flooding back… just because I saw an advert for a hat.
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