By MATT NEWSUM
WHENEVER you go in the city of Berlin, one landmark normally stands tall above the rest.
The city’s old ‘fernsehturm’ or TV tower was the east’s attempt to impact everyone’s lives, a symbolic way to remind a city of its presence.
Even now, years after it was erected, it looms through trees, above walls and outclimbs Berlin’s towering modern architecture.
My latest visit to the German capital was organised to remember my dad; we had shared many trips and even the same skyline tattoo – that damn tower even adorns my forearm – but his death last year following stage four prostate cancer meant this was a final pilgrimage here that we never got to do together.
Yet, I had barely touched down in my hotel room off the imposing Frankfurter Allee when I received the news that the great John Kear had passed away.
John was someone I loved dearly. We had hours earlier been saying our goodbyes for the night after a glorious day. We had commentated on a Challenge Cup final, dined on spicy chicken (with his favourite corn on the cob) and shared beers with our colleagues after a job well done. He was on marvellous form, delivering his trademark quips with a sparkle in his eyes, so it was utterly crushing to hear the news.
Suddenly, my already emotional trip was hundred tinged with sadness. And to boot I was all alone, thousands of miles from my other grieving friends and I had lost a great companion.
When dad died, John was magnificent. He frequently rang to check on me. When he arrived at Wigan for a game and I was still shellshocked and low on conversation, he merely gave me the warmest of hugs. No words needed. It was enough to soothe my soul.
I had a Fred Perry polo shirt that I had earmarked for dad’s birthday. Sadly he died the day after and had been too ill to even acknowledge the gift. I knew who I wanted to have it so I wrote a letter and sent the parcel. John’s delight at the gesture was everything.
As I struggled with the shock and sadness, my phone buzzed, colleagues called and we shared tears and laughs between stories of the great man.
The last thing I felt like was stepping out into a bustling city, but I forced myself out to fulfil some nostalgia.
There was plenty going on by the fountain at Alexanderplatz with the tower in the midst, but I found some serenity and smiled at moments of joy as my mind played over a string of memories – John getting cramp mid-commentary and his attempts to alleviate it on air, his complaining to me about a hotel room he best described as “a bloody broom cupboard!”, and thinking of his disgust at London beer prices – “£15 or two pints?!”, – all with that wonderful accent and tone.
My dad loved people watching at Hackescher Markt with a beer, so I headed there and read some more tributes, happily for less than £7.50 a pint, and watched the boats go by on the Spree a little further along.
Time had somewhat dimmed the pain of my dad dying, so I felt he’d understand that John was at the forefront of my thoughts.
What started as a trip to remember my dad had become a trip overcome with sadness, but it also gave me chance to go through the motions in peace.
Sat on a bench at the vast Soviet memorial in Treptower Park, I didn’t have to deal with life. I could cry, I could grieve, I could laugh and smile, I could recall the silly moments. Not impinging on anyone.
I could see the beaming smile on his face when I recreated Eddie Waring’s commentary of Alan Lowndes scoring for his beloved Cas in the 1970 Cup final.
I could bawl my eyes out thinking of his love for wife Dawn, and how he had been chatting to his kids on our customary Cup final eve walk and coffee around Wembley.
On the way down to the game we had to send in a ‘pen pic’ for use in graphics in the game, to go along with name credits.
I had to take John’s photo for it on Olympic Way before forwarding them on, his smiling face captured forever. I will cherish them, those throwaway snapshots, as a reminder of that special Cup final day.
I’ve boxed off Berlin now, but it will always remind me of my dad, and now also John.
The pair of them are my own personal ‘TV towers’, always there looming over me wherever I may go. Like the tower itself, long may that continue.
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