HOW IT STARTED
What Advice Would You Give Your 18-Year-Old Self?
I asked my dad this question before he died and he gave me a two-word answer
Dad was a natural athlete. As a boy, he could easily do a standing backflip, walk on his hands and was strong enough to lift the back end of a car off the ground.
He was a skillful footballer, at fifteen he played for Scotland's under-21 team and played professionally.
He took to golf from the moment he picked up a club. Despite never having a lesson, he copied the swing of Ben Hogan and became a low handicap golfer.
He was a strong swimmer. When he retired, he swam every day for thirty years until Covid closed his local pool.
Last year at eighty-nine, he caught Covid then cancer. My brothers and sister looked after him on a 24/7 basis and it was our honour.
One day I asked him, “If you could, what advice would you give your 18-year-old self, Dad?” He thought about it for a moment and gave me a two-word answer:
“Stick in.” — That was it, “Stick in.”
I knew what he meant. Those two words were his way of saying never give up, do your best, have some grit and determination. And all those things Dad had done his whole life.
One summer’s day, Dad took my brother, Kenny, and me camping.
I was five or six, too young to remember my age, but old enough to remember how I felt. We got the bus to the Ochil Hills. Dad carried the heavy stuff, our supplies, and a small tent. Kenny and I had our haversacks with our sleeping bags.
We pitched the tent beside a bubbling burn. Paddled in the cold water, laughing at the silliest things.
Tired, we got into our sleeping bags, huddled into the tent, and tried to fall asleep.
In the night’s quiet, that bubbling burn sounded like Niagara Falls. It kept us awake. After a while, Dad shouted, “For goodness’s sake, would somebody switch that tap off!” And the three of us burst out laughing.
The next day we walked the five miles home. I was so tired. We were all tired. Dad encouraged me by giving me a sweetie if I made it to the next lamppost. But he must have run out of sweeties after a while.
Dad took my haversack and handed it to Kenny. Then he picked me up, and I wrapped my arms around his neck and he carried me all the way home.
He stuck in.
Dad spent hours meticulously putting his stamp collections into albums, detailing each with his neat penmanship or typing up the information for display.
He built a large brick birdhouse in his back garden. For the next 20 years, he bred and showed his canaries at bird shows across the country.
I found a brochure with the results of the 15th Scottish All Fife Fancy Show 1996. Dad’s name appeared in the winner’s column more times than any other name. He had boxes full of rosettes.
They asked him to judge bird shows all over the UK and Ireland — such was his renown. Even with his hobbies, Dad stuck in.
For all his sporting achievements and his dedication to his hobbies, it was his devotion to Mum and his family that set him apart.
He never drank and didn’t smoke. When my brothers, sister and I came along, he stopped playing football with grown men and played football with us. He gave his time to us.
When we had our kids and they called him Pawpaw, the same name we had called his dad. With the birth of every new grandchild, his heart swelled with pride. He never forgot their birthdays. All nine got handmade cards and poems penned by him.
Dad didn’t want for anything because he didn’t want for more than he needed. He didn’t need fancy cars or a big house. Money did not motivate him. He was motivated to provide for his family. Once he did that, he needed no more.
It took little to see how honest, decent, and generous my father was.
Until he caught Covid, Dad was not on any regular medication. His doctors described him as a medical miracle.
There are few people past their 50s who don’t get prescribed a daily dose of something. For a man nearing 90, it is unheard of.
Dad had all his faculties. He could remember the names of all the guys in the black-and-white photo of his football team taken 70 years ago.
He had persistence. He would not put his crossword down until it was done.
He took pride in his appearance. A handsome man, nobody ever saw him unshaved, and he had a comb in a pocket of every jacket he owned.
He kept his achievements to himself. He took delight in our successes and my mum’s accomplishments. Humility and pride were his currencies. He was content to potter in his workshop, feed his birds or tend his garden.
His advice to his 18-year-old self was to stick in. And it looked like he had listened. He stuck in at everything he did. He stuck in for his family. We were the most important thing to him. Stick in is only two words, but it means more than you can imagine.
Life can be difficult. In a world of many tragedies, it is no surprise that many of us can feel lost and alone. But no matter how tough life has become, no matter how bad things get, there is always a reason to keep going, to keep battling.
We should lead our lives with a sense of urgency. Don’t waste a minute. Be enthusiastic and fearless. We shouldn’t let defeat define us. If we fail, acknowledge it, bear it, and learn from it. Then move on.
He didn’t have all the answers, and he advised me not to listen to anyone who claimed they did.
Dad helped me be strong. I learned from his wisdom and his determination. He showed me how to live life by his example.
Dad showed me the only way I could fail was if I gave up. He knew a life of self-pity is no life at all. He taught me to learn from my failures and not be discouraged by them. Failure is not final.
Now you know a little about my dad, I hope he helps you in the same way he helped me.
Stick in.
Stick in and read more here and/or sign up to get an email when Malky publishes. And if you haven’t joined Medium, you can earn from writing on Medium by joining here.
