My great grandfather was a professional footballer. In the first few decades of last century he played club football in Glasgow and represented Scotland in a number of internationals, including on an exhibition tour to South America back in the days when we could legitimately claim we were teaching the world the game. Bobby Orr is something of a legend in our family; we have all been brought up with the stories of him playing at Cathkin Park and at Hampden in front of thousands of people. He must have been something of a celebrity in an age when that term was just beginning to mean something.

Of all the stories that I have heard, the one that has always captured my imagination was his choosing to play the last few seasons of his career at Crystal Palace. In the 1920s, London must have seemed an incredible adventure for someone from a small village outside Glasgow. I have no idea how he came to sign for Palace, nor what he would have made of living and playing in London, but I suspect it was both lucrative and glamourous. There are accounts of my great grandmother, bedecked in the finest furs (different times!), travelling by first class rail from Glasgow to watch him play on match days.

Sadly I never met my great grandfather, and even more sadly my dad didn’t meet him either. He died in the 1940s, and despite the fact my grandmother was pregnant at the time, he died without ever knowing he would have a grandson. Recently that grandson turned 70, and to mark the occasion we made a pilgrimage to Selhurst Park to watch Crystal Palace play in the Premiership. It was quite something to sit in the stands where my great grandmother sat 90 years ago cheering her husband on the very same pitch where we watched the current team beat Huddersfield. It isn’t often that these connections to the past are possible, but when they are they are worth savouring.