Things My Son Needs to Know about the World Read online

  It’s not that people will just glare at you and clench their fists in their pockets if you do it, either. IKEA has the least passive passive-aggressive customers in the entire universe. Late-middle-aged women with purple hair and a scent of menthol tobacco will ram your shins with their trolleys like they were industrial whale catchers and you were a rubber boat bearing the Greenpeace logo. Older men will yell swear words/body parts combinations at you. Fathers carrying small children in BabyBjörns will “accidentally” head butt you. Honestly: you could drive the wrong way down the highway and experience less hostility from strangers. You’re an outlaw. And I don’t mean that in a fun “living in the forest with my friends” kind of way. I mean it’s hunting season and you’re the prey. I mean that if you were in any of the Robin Hood films and you said, “I’m an outlaw too, can I tag along?” to Kevin Costner and Russell Crowe, they would be all, “What did you say you did? Seriously? Look, man, we’ve murdered and desecrated and plundered, and we don’t mean to moralize or anything, but what the hell is wrong with you? Didn’t you see the arrows?!” It’s a crime as bad as stealing someone else’s parking space. Anyone can kill you after that. Them’s the rules.

  But otherwise: don’t pee in the ball pool. That’s really the most important thing.

  And yes. I know you might be thinking that it’s strange for me to spend so much time talking about IKEA. Entirely justified. But some of the WORST days of my life have been spent in that place. Truly, other than the dentist and the crematorium, there are no other places I would be prepared to do as much to avoid going to. I mean, I wouldn’t chop off an arm or eat excrement or anything, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not a lunatic. But on Sundays a few years ago, I seriously might have done anything below that category. For example, your mother once called my bluff and said, “ANYTHING?” and I said, “ANYTHING EXCEPT IKEA!!!” and then she made me take out the trash naked. But that’s another story. But, you know. Then you grow up. You will too. And you’ll start to realize other things. Like the fact that some of the very best days of your life will be spent in IKEA too. And that, after a while, the contents of the trunk become meaningless in comparison to the contents of the passenger seat.

  You’ll grow up. Leave school. Come home one day and announce that you’re not going to university because you’re starting a band. Or opening a bar. Or a surf shop in Thailand. You’ll pierce your eyebrow and get a tattoo of a dragon on your arse or whatever and start reading books about practical philosophy. And that’s fine. It’s okay to be an idiot while you’re a teenager. It’s a teenager’s job. But, you know, it’s also going to be around that time that I’ll tell you that it would probably be a good idea if you moved to your own place. And it won’t be anything personal, I want to say that right here and now. It’s just that I’ll need your room, because I won’t have anywhere to put my new pool table otherwise.

  And then we’ll go to IKEA to buy cutlery and potato peelers and lightbulbs for you. Because that’s a parent’s job.

  I left home in the late nineties. I guess you’ll be doing it in the late twenties. The best advice I can give you is to buy enough plates so that you don’t have to do the dishes very often. And to have plenty of hidden storage solutions for empty soda cans. And not to keep drugs at home. Yes, I know what you’re thinking—you think you’ll get away with the whole “they belong to a friend” excuse. But you can forget about your mother believing that when she comes to visit. She’s not stupid. She’ll know you drank all that soda yourself.

  Other than that, I don’t want to butt in. A man’s first apartment is his own. Though if I were going to give you one tiny bit of advice, it would be to buy your first sofa secondhand. Not from IKEA. Buy one of those brown leather monstrosities as big as the Death Star. The kind you need a minute to be able to classify with certainty as a sofa rather than a bouncy castle. Where the cushions are so worn that they’ll smother the fire themselves when your friend Sock falls asleep with a cigarette in his mouth. The kind you’ll spend 80 percent of your nights on because it’s just not worth the effort of going all the way to bed once you’ve turned off the video games. Let function come before form. Buy the sofa you want, not the sofa you need. Trust me. You’ll never get the chance again.

  Because sooner or later, you’ll fall in love. And from then on, every sofa you own will be one long compromise. So live while you’re young. Spend as much time on the sofa of your dreams as you can.

  And I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking that a sofa like that will be far too expensive for you. But don’t worry. You can get one for free if you agree to go and pick it up.

  You might not realize it now, but one day you’re going to move in with someone you love too, and by then all this will all be crystal clear.

  The majority of things in life are about picking your battles. You’ll learn that too. And that will never be clearer than when you’re at IKEA. You’d have to visit a Danish vacation village after two weeks of pouring rain and no beer to come across as many couples arguing as you’ll hear in the IKEA section for changeable sofa covers on any given Tuesday. People take this whole interior design thing really seriously these days. It’s become a national pastime to overinterpret the symbolism of the fact that “he wants frosted glass, that just proves he never l-i-s-t-e-n-s to my FEELINGS.” “Ahhhhh! She wants beech veneer. Do you hear me? Beech veneer! Sometimes, it feels like I’ve woken up next to a stranger!” That’s how it is, every single time you go there. And I’m not going to lecture you, but if there’s just one thing I can get across then let it be this: no one has ever, in the history of the world, had an argument in IKEA that really is about IKEA. People can say whatever they like, but when a couple who has been married for ten years walks around the bookshelves section calling one another words normally only used by alcoholic crime fiction detectives, they might be arguing about a number of things, but trust me: cupboard doors is not one of them.

  Believe me. You’re a Backman. Regardless of how many shortcomings the person you fall in love with might have, I can guarantee that you still come out on top of that bargain. So find someone who doesn’t love you for the person you are, but despite the person you are. And when you’re standing there, in the storage section at IKEA, don’t focus too much on the furniture. Focus on the fact that you’ve actually found someone who can see themselves storing their crap in the same place as your crap. Because, hand on heart: you have a lot of crap.

  In May 2008, I went to an IKEA just outside of Stockholm. It was a Sunday and roughly six thousand degrees and the air-conditioning was broken. Manchester United won the league that day and I missed their last game. Everything but the lemon-flavored sparkling water had run out in the café. An old woman who smelled like cheap cigarettes rammed her trolley into my shins. I was holding the most butt-ugly hallway light I’d ever seen in my arms.

  It was one of the happiest days of my life.

  The next morning, we signed the lease for our first apartment together. Your first home. People sometimes ask me how I lived before I met your mother. I answer that I didn’t.

  I wish you nothing less than that.

  Even when it means that you too one day will have to give away that brown leather sofa to some nineteen-year-old moron in an Arsenal shirt who comes over to your place with a Jägermeister-smelling friend one Saturday morning and uses the word “dopeish.” Even then.

  You’ll learn to hate IKEA. Really. You’ll shout about missing screws and cut yourself on folded sheets of plywood and swear to devote your life to finding and killing whoever came up with the illustrated instructions for assembling this piece of crap TV stand.

  And then you’ll learn to love this place.

  I came here with your mother just after we found out she was pregnant. Fantasized about who you would be. (United beat City that day, I missed that game too.) And we came here with you in the stroller just after you were born. Fantasized about who you would grow up to be. And I allow myself to imagine once in
a while that one day I might have the joy of walking around here, missing Manchester United games while we look at things for my grandchild. Because one day I’ll look away for two seconds and when I turn around again you’ll be all grown up.

  And then I’ll get my goddamn payback for all this.

  Then I’ll wake you up at half past five on a Sunday morning and throw up into your Xbox, let me tell you that right now. And then we’ll come here and I’ll give you good advice about life and everything and you’ll roll your eyes and we’ll have a huge fight over the best way to get those damn boxes into the back of the car. (You’ll be wrong.)

  Some of the very, very, very best days of our life will be in IKEA.

  So play. Learn. Grow up. Follow your passions. Find someone to love. Do your best. Be kind when you can, tough when you need to be. Hold on to your friends. Don’t go against the direction of the painted arrows in the floor. You’ll be just fine.

  But honestly, now. Tell me the truth. You’ve peed in the ball pool, haven’t you? Great. Just great.

  Yes. I know your mother said no.

  But seriously.

  She thought “Santiago Bernabéu” was a red wine.

  You can’t listen to her.

  Recipe for Fried Snickers Ice Cream

  (You’ll thank me for this one day.)

  You need:

  Flour

  Water

  Beer

  Baking powder

  A wok

  Small pieces of bread

  Enough oil that the City Health Department will announce you an enemy of the people

  As many Snickers ice creams as you can carry

  Someone else’s kitchen

  (If you use our kitchen and your mother finds out, you’re also going to need a witness protection program.)

  Do the following:

  Take the Snickers ice creams out of their wrappers and put on a plate in the freezer. Leave them there for 6 to 7 Football Manager games. They should be as stiff as a Keanu Reeves performance (other than the first Matrix film and parts of the third) when you take them out.

  Mix equal parts flour and water and a tablespoon of baking powder. Heat the oil until it bubbles like the water in that cave where Flash Gordon goes to look for that girl.

  Take out the Snickers ice creams. Dip in the flour/water goo. Drop into the oil. Leave to fry for 15 to 20 seconds until they start to look awesome. Take out. Eat immediately.

  (I also put syrup, chocolate sauce, and Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk on mine. But if you feel like that’s a bit unhealthy and want something fresher, you could definitely serve it with some kind of fruit instead. Banana, for example. In that case, you don’t even have to change the oil. Just fry the banana in the same oil as the ice cream.)

  This message will self-destruct in five seconds.

  [baby applauding ironically]

  Yes. I’ve noticed that you’ve learned to clap.

  And don’t get me wrong, that’s all lovely and good. Child psychologists say that hand clapping is closely linked to both coordination and creativity. A way for small children to express their identity. And that’s just great and all that.

  But, I mean. I just wish you would clap a bit more… enthusiastically. That’s all. The way you do it now, it’s really slow and quiet. It’s almost like you’re doing it… to prove a point. You know what I mean?

  And yes, obviously I tried to use this to my advantage at first, like I guess all normal parents would. I started pretending I was constantly in a golf tournament and that you were the crowd just after I hit the fairway. I practiced my swing in the kitchen and gazed toward the horizon, and as I passed your walker I adjusted my cap in a concentrated manner and mumbled things like, “Mmm, now I just have to make it over the left bunker and then I can reach the green in two.”

  But now, I don’t know how to explain it. Now you clap all demonstratively at moments when it’s hard to interpret it as you being anything other than, well… sarcastic.

  Like when I feed you. And I, to make the whole thing more exciting, pretend that the spoon is an airplane. That’s when you just give me a skeptical look once the spoon is in your mouth, and you swallow the food with the same expression your mother usually wears when I play air guitar. And then you clap.

  Not for long. Not enthusiastically. Just three or four claps. Slow and quiet.

  And it’s really hard not to feel like you’re saying, “There, clever idiot. You found my mouth. Shall we see if you can do it again?”

  Honestly, it’s really starting to affect my self-confidence.

  I still don’t get it.

  Whenever your mother has given you breakfast, the kitchen looks like an advertisement for cleaning products. Whenever I give you breakfast, it looks like the part of The Hunger Games where everybody dies. There’s something someone’s not telling me here, dammit.

  WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT SOCCER

  I’m not saying you have to play soccer. Of course you don’t. I’m not going to be one of those dads who puts pressure on you and stands on the sidelines screaming and shouting.

  I’m just saying that things will be easier if you play soccer. That’s all. You’ll avoid having to take a lot of crap from your surroundings, that’s all.

  I mean, I can see you aren’t all that interested right now. You actually seem to find dancing a lot more fun. And yes, we’re not quite in agreement over whether I threw that ball to you or at you just now. But the minute your mother turns on music, you’re suddenly bouncing through the living room like a jolly little Gummi Bear on prescription medication.

  And it’s not that there’s anything WRONG with that. Not at all. Of course, you should dance if you want to.

  I’m just saying that life as a little boy will be less complicated if you play soccer. That I’m worried about the alienation a different choice might cause. That’s all.

  And listen, you don’t even need to PLAY soccer, all right? You just need to like watching it. It’s just about being part of the group. Feeling accepted.

  Not that there’s anything w-r-o-n-g with doing other things, of course not. Like dancing or whatever. Or, you know, other things. Of course not. It’s just that I want you to avoid that feeling of not fitting in. No one wants to feel like that. I know that sounds weird, but I just want you to know this is all about love.

  It’s important to feel a part of something. Not to feel like an outsider all the time.

  Because, you know, I love soccer. Really, really love it. It’s given me so much more than I could ever give back. And I want the same for you. I want you to experience everything soccer is and has been and can and should be, everything it could be for you and only you.

  I want you to enjoy that magical life experience of finding your team. Because of loyalty, or as an act of rebellion. Because of geography, or history. To fit in. To stick out. Because of a defender with a cool name. Or just because of a pure, unexpected love.

  Because that team just had the coolest-looking shirts.

  And that shirt will follow you for a lifetime. Longer than most people. It’ll become your superpower. You’ll meet plenty of people who won’t understand it, but regardless of where you end up in life, that shirt will give you ninety minutes of amnesia every week. And you’ll discover that, sometimes, that’s the most desired superpower of all.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with dancing. Not at all.

  Or horse riding or synchronized swimming or anything like that, if you’d prefer that. Not at all. I’m not that kind of dad, you know? It’s perfectly fine if you choose that instead.

  Maybe you don’t even want to do a sport. You might want to play golf instead! And that’s all right too!

  I don’t have any prejudices.

  It’s just that I’m… you know. Worried about that feeling of being left out.

  So I just want a chance to explain what soccer has given me.

  Because it’s not just about me taking you to a game
and explaining the rules and strategies. Like how best to avoid the lines at the hot dog stands: you don’t go there five minutes before halftime, you go five minutes before halftime is over, when all the other suckers are already heading back to their seats. (Or how you should always ask to have the fried onions in the bottom of the bun, as far away from the ketchup as possible, so you don’t accidentally turn the entire seating section into a textured wallpaper when your team scores a goal. Experience.)

  It’s about other things too. Like how all the most magical fairy tales I can tell you about—how the smallest can become the greatest, even if just for a day—I’ve learned from soccer. Everything I know about second chances. About how there’ll always be a new game. That every week ends with a Sunday. That we’ll always get another opportunity to be perfect.

  That, regardless of all other circumstances, it’s always 0–0 to begin with.

  When you grow up, people will often ask you about your first great love. And, for me, it was this. Maybe you won’t like it at all. Maybe the idea of twenty-two millionaires with underarm tattoos and hair products you could make bulletproof vests out of running around on a lawn and throwing themselves to the ground like they’ve been shot with horse tranquilizers the second they find themselves in the same zipcode as a defensive goal line is just less appealing to you than to me.

  I get that.

  Fine.

  You might end up hating soccer.

  And I want you to know that I’ll never, ever, ever love you any less in that case. Or be any less proud of you. You’re my boy. When you were born, it was like someone carbonated the air in my lungs. Like you blew bubbles into my blood through a straw. My entire life was about nothing but me for twenty-five years, but then your mother came along and then you came along and now I wake up in the middle of the night several times a week and have to check you’re both still breathing before I can get back to sleep. Can you grasp that? If I’d acted this way before I became someone’s dad, they would have locked me up in a padded cell with an iPod full of dolphin songs.