A Ball, A Father, A Life-time of Memory

A Ball, A Father, A Life-time of Memory

May 23 , 2026. By Eden Sahle ( Eden Sahle is founder and CEO of Yada Technology Plc. She has studied law with a focus on international economic law. She can be reached at edensah2000@gmail.com. )

A childhood defined by controlled media access leads to football becoming the dominant source of entertainment and learning. The father’s approach positions sport as both protection and instruction for his children. Regular viewing of international and local matches creates structured emotional routines. Over time, these rituals evolve into deeply rooted family identity markers. The legacy persists long after the original household structure changes.

Football was never merely a game in our household. It was ritual, language and affection woven into everyday life. While other families gathered around television dramas or weekend films, our home moved according to football fixtures, league tables and post-match analysis. Growing up, my brothers and I were not allowed unrestricted television time. There were no movie marathons or long conversations about celebrities at the dinner table. Football stood as the lone exception, and that exception shaped our childhood more profoundly than I understood at the time.

My father had once played professional football before eventually changing careers. To him, the sport represented far more than entertainment. Football meant discipline, direction and protection. He often spoke about how it had kept him away from destructive choices during his youth. While many young men around him lost focus, football gave him structure and ambition. He believed sincerely that sport could save lives, and he wanted his children to grow up within that same framework.

The first book my father ever asked me to read was a biography of Pelé, written while the football legend was still actively playing. Looking back now, the gesture feels deeply symbolic. He was introducing me not only to football history, but also to ideas of sacrifice, consistency and greatness. Long before I understood tactics or league standings, I already understood that football mattered.

Weekends in our house carried the atmosphere of celebration. Premier League matches filled the living room with tension, shouting and excitement. Bundesliga and Serie A games stretched across long afternoons. UEFA Champions League nights transformed ordinary weekdays into family events. During matches involving Ethiopian Coffee SC, the FIFA World Cup, the Africa Cup of Nations and the Olympic Games, the atmosphere became electric. Special dishes appeared. Snacks covered the table. Relatives and neighbours occasionally joined us. There was laughter, prayer, celebration and endless commentary. Match day never felt like passive viewing. It felt like participation in something much larger.

Like many children, we inherited our father’s loyalties. I first supported Manchester United F.C. before eventually joining my father and brothers in supporting Arsenal F.C.. In Italy, our family’s loyalty belonged firmly to Juventus FC. Victories lifted the mood of the house for days. Defeats altered the emotional climate entirely. When Arsenal or Juventus lost an important match, disappointment settled over the household like heavy weather. Football carried that kind of emotional weight.

To outsiders, this level of attachment may appear excessive. Football fandom can indeed become unhealthy. Across the world, including in Ethiopia, rivalries between supporters have sometimes turned violent and deadly. Yet there is another side to football culture that receives far less attention. For families like mine, football created closeness. It kept children indoors, engaged and connected. It gave fathers, sons, daughters and siblings something meaningful to share.

Throughout high school and even into university, our restrictions on television changed very little. At times, I felt isolated because of it. My classmates spent hours discussing television dramas and films that I knew nothing about. Often, I stayed silent during conversations because I could not contribute. Back then, I envied them. I wondered whether I was missing what others considered normal experiences.

Years later, my perspective shifted. Some people I knew from school became consumed by unhealthy distractions and lifestyles. Not everyone, of course, but enough to make me appreciate the choices my father made for us. Sport filled our minds with discipline, competition, teamwork and ambition rather than endless passive entertainment. Football encouraged participation as much as observation. We played constantly, not just watched.

One of the biggest surprises of my life came when I visited London, a city I quickly grew to love. Before arriving, I imagined football would dominate daily conversation. After all, London is home to some of the world’s most famous clubs and stadiums. I expected constant match debates, visible supporter culture and communities revolving around football.

Instead, I encountered something entirely different. Many people I met admitted they rarely watched football. Some had never attended a Premier League match despite living close to globally recognised stadiums. Others associated football supporters with violence, drinking and disorderly behaviour. I remember calling my family back home to describe my surprise. My father and brothers were equally shocked. To us, football represented family, togetherness and joy. Hearing it described negatively felt unfamiliar.

Then came the loss that changed everything.

Four years ago, my father passed away suddenly. Even in his final years, he never stopped believing Arsenal would one day win another major title. Every new season carried fresh hope in his eyes. Every disappointment felt temporary. He remained loyal through setback after setback. Football stayed one of his greatest passions until the very end.

After his passing, watching football became painful for my brothers and me. The sport that once united our family suddenly became inseparable from grief. Every match carried memories of the man who built our traditions around it. Gradually, we stopped watching altogether. One of the strongest bonds in our household disappeared alongside him.

Earlier this week, I came across news that Arsenal had finally become Premier League champions again after more than two decades. My first reaction was excitement. Almost immediately, grief followed. I could only think about how happy my father would have been. I imagined his celebration, the phone calls, the laughter and the endless analysis of the season. Instead, the moment joined a growing list of milestones I wish he had lived to witness.

Now, as a parent myself, I understand my father more clearly than ever. My husband Mike does not care much about football, yet it remains something we hope to pass down to our daughter and future children. Not necessarily the club rivalries or emotional obsession, but the healthier side of sport: discipline, teamwork, connection and joy. I already play football and exercise with my two-year-old daughter, and watching her fall in love with movement fills me with emotion. Often, I catch myself returning to the same thought: I wish my father could see this.

Modern parenting debates focus heavily on screen time, digital addiction and online influence. In that conversation, sport deserves far greater recognition. Children raised around sport often gain more than physical fitness. They learn resilience after defeat, humility in victory and commitment through repetition. They build friendships and memories that can last a lifetime.

Football did not merely entertain my family. It shaped our identity. In many ways, it protected us. It brought generations together under one roof and gave us memories that still echo long after the final whistle. Most importantly, it gave us unforgettable moments with a father whose presence still lingers every time a ball rolls across a screen or a child kicks one across a field.

PUBLISHED ON May 23,2026 [ VOL 27 , NO 1360]