Ten Pounds

I used to think the radio only had one station because when I was growing up every time I got in the car with Dad it was like permanently dialed on Smooth Radio. 

ABBA, Elton John, Bee Gees, George Michael, all of these. 

Neil Diamond … Neil was Dad’s favorite.

My whole life all I ever knew was me and Dad. He worked a lot, first at a concrete company before starting his own business spray-painting cars and fixing dints and things like that. He never missed a day. When he came home from work, he’d get changed dead quick, and by the time he got downstairs I’d already be sitting on the couch waiting in my footy kit for him to drive me to training. And Smooth filled up the car. It was the soundtrack to our life. Dad loved Karen Carpenter, too. Every time she’d come on the radio, he’d be like, “Who sings this, Cock?” And I just knew, even if I didn’t hear a word of the song, I knew it would be her.

The memories that come flooding back, it’s not what you’d think. It’s not the big stuff. What I’m learning about grief is that, when it’s quiet and you’re all alone, it’s the smallest things … the most forgettable things that pop in your head. 

“Who sings this, Cock?”

We lost my dad last September, a few days before his 60th birthday. He really didn’t want to turn 60. I kept saying, “Come on, Dad, let’s have a big party, come on.” But he’d say, “No, Ella, don’t want one of ’em.” He was sick for a bit. But, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have known either because he never moaned about it. When he passed, it was a big shock, even to some of the people closest to him, because no one hardly knew he was ill. People ask me now, “Why didn’t you tell us?” And I’m like, I didn’t know either. I didn’t know half of it.

For the past few months, I’ve been trying to figure it all out, trying to get unstuck. It’s still raw. I still feel the pain digging in, the gutting feeling of not having him here anymore. Even now, sometimes I think he’s going to come back, like he’s right in the other room waiting for me to come around the corner so he can have a joke or some banter … he was always on a wind up. 

Mum says he had that little laugh where you just knew he was trying to piss you off, trying to wind you up. It wasn’t like a loud laugh, but a little snicker.

The memories that come flooding back, it’s not what you’d think. It’s the smallest things… the most forgettable things that pop in your head.

- Ella Toone

He had this “bit” he did all the time, if you can even call it that. I mean really ran it into the ground. Whether it was my mates, my mum, me, my brother — even after 20 years, he could still get you with it. 

You’d be walking, he’d be walking behind you, and very casually he’d say like, “Oh, look at that dog over there.” 

And you’d look. 

Then he’d go, “Argh!!!” And grab your leg from behind, and you’d jump a mile. 

We were like, “Dad, it’s not even funny.” But then he’d do that little laugh, and you’d have to laugh, too.

He’d always make up these little games. At Christmas, we’d play table tennis tournaments, and he’d be like proper going for it. Until I got a bit older, and I’d batter him every time.

Dad was stocky and small. He said it was Grandma’s fault he was short because the bed only let his feet go that far, so it stopped him growing. He grew up in the house right next door to where he raised me and my brother Joe. And he loved football — obsessed with it. Especially women’s football.

When I was growing up, and there weren’t that many people to look up to or games to watch, he would try his best to find one on the telly, or if there was one local, to get us tickets. He used to take me to the local football centre where he played when he was younger. I remember I’d always play at the side of the pitch with my brother and my cousins and all the lads. 

One day someone said to Dad, “Your Ella’s really good, you should take her to a team.” So he took me to the Astley and Tyldesley Girls team. I’m sure he figured I was alright, but I don’t think he knew how good I’d be. 

My first game he told me, “Every goal you score, I’ll give you a tenner.”

Me being competitive me, I was absolutely buzzing. I really took after Dad in how competitive I was. I seriously had to win everything. (I’m still like this). Me and Dad used to play dominoes before bed every night so that I’d go to sleep, and if I lost I’d be fuming. I’d be like, “I don’t want to go to bed! One more! One more!!!” You’d think a parent would do anything to just get the kids to bed, right?? But no. That wasn’t Dad at all. He never let me win.

So you can imagine how I lit up for 10 quid. Ended up winning 10-nil…. And I scored all 10 goals. I think prize money went down a bit after that!

But that was all it took — 10 pounds, and we were off.

Flash forward, and I’m not that kid anymore sitting on the couch waiting in my footy kit. I’ve gone from Astley and Tyldesley to Manchester United’s academy, to my senior debut with City, to being back at Man U like I’d always dreamed about. Mum and Dad are at every game and recording it at home so they can watch it again on the telly, which is a little mad, you know?

Every time I’d ring, they’d be like, “We’re just re-watching that game from the other day.” 

Like, What? 

After he’d watched it twice Dad would ring me for analysis. Dad was a top analyst. They should have put him on Sky. He analysed every minute of every game right from when I was five, to now, telling me what I did well and what I could work on. During the game, I could always hear him on the side, shouting stuff at me…. “Keep goin’!!” and the like. 

As I got older and there were more fans, you would just hear him yelling:

“COME ON, UNITED!!!!” Dead loud. 

I knew it was him every time, didn’t even have to look. 

Dad was always the one who kept me grounded, especially as the spotlight got bigger. I went from this little girl who wanted to play football and not really having many people to look up to in the women’s game, to being a part of it. I think after the Euros you could really feel something shifting. Suddenly many more people were watching. The lights got brighter. And in a small way, that was hard because you go from living a pretty private life, to being in the public eye and everyone knowing who you are. I’m grateful, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take time to get used to. When I’m out, I can get in my head thinking people are looking at me. The hardest bit is when I’m approached when I’m with my family. I’m like, Just let me have a quiet meal with my family, please. 

But you wanna know something funny? Dad loved it. He loved every time someone came over to me buzzing. On away trips, my boyfriend told me if a little girl had Toone on the back of her shirt, my dad would go over and say, “I’m Ella Toone’s dad.” I’m like, “Dad, that’s so embarrassing.” But he was just dead proud. 

And as everything was getting bigger and bigger, the thing he would say to me sometimes that stuck was: “Just keep doing what you’re doing. And enjoy the journey of the game.”

The journey.

I needed to hear that because when you’re in it, when you’re on the ride, you can get lost in the high highs and in the crushing losses. You don’t see the “journey” very well. You can’t see the bigger picture.

Now, though, I can see it all, like a movie. And Dad’s with me the whole way. He’s in every scene.

There he is. I’m six. He’s coughing up 100 pounds after promising me a tenner for every goal.

There he is. I’m eight. I’m putting on the kit of my favorite club. The club that decorated my whole bedroom — Man United bedding, all the posters on the walls, everything, just all United. I’m absolutely buzzing. This can’t be real. And there’s Dad waiting in the car.

There he is. I’m 16. Dying to be on the senior team, but it doesn’t even exist yet. I’m crushed. I have to leave for another club, because there’s simply no women’s team. And there’s Dad, comforting me, telling me it’s all going to work out.

The journey......

There he is. I’m making my senior debut with City. And he’s in the stands, yelling, “Keep goin’, Ella!!!”

And now, I’m 20 ... and now….

And now…..

Now, I’m about to lose him.

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There he is. It’s 2022, and we’re at the Euros.

The first game was actually at Old Trafford. I got a box for everyone. All my mates, my cousins, everyone. I’ll never forget the way it felt looking up from the bench and seeing them in the box. 

After the game, I remember joining them and thinking Dad looked … well, he looked a bit like he’d had a rough night out. 

Mum said, “Oh, he’s not too good.” 

I just took that to mean he had the flu or something. He got on with it, so it didn’t stick out to me at all. He was at every game the whole way through. There was only one game that they couldn’t get to, at Brighton. 

Mum rang me saying, “Dad’s not feeling too well. But I’ll come myself.” 

I didn’t ask what it was. 

“No, don’t come, Mum, it’s alright.”

When he’d see me after the games, Dad would tell me everything there and then, all of his analysis. And then I’d ring him the day after, and he’d have watched the game back, telling me how good it was and analysing everything.

When you’re playing for England (I probably shouldn’t even write this) you’re not allowed to tell people the starting lineup … even your parents. I said, “Dad, can’t tell you the team anymore, we can’t do that.” But he couldn’t help himself. He texted me backwards, “What’s the team, Cock? You playing?”

I typed back: S-E-Y.

We reached the final. And I didn’t start — my role was to come on and change the game. While I was on the bench, I looked around early on to find my family and wave to them. Next thing I know I was subbed on. I went out on the pitch. It was nil-nil. I knew exactly where my family was. They were on the left-hand side in the bottom tier. We play, I take off, get a chance and score. The rush of it is indescribable. Nothing in the world like that feeling. You’re not thinking, just battered with emotion. I ran straight over to that left-hand side, where I knew my family was. Then we won the Euros.

After the match, because of Covid, you couldn’t really get to everyone in the stands. So I sat on the front bit of their section, and there’s a picture of me with my medal with all of them behind me. I remember they were buzzing. I’ve heard that they were crying when I scored. When you’re playing, you don’t see stuff like that. You don’t know what they’re like. But my boyfriend told me. Dad said, “Knew you would come on and score.” 

Then I went and celebrated in the changing room with the team. We all got on the coach, and that was lively. Then I finally managed to ring my parents, before heading to the after party. 

They said, “Have a good night. It was amazing. You were amazing.” 

They said all the stuff that your mum and dad are going to say when you’ve won the Euros. 

Then I asked them about the after-party. 

“Yeah, we can’t come to that one, your dad needs to go back and see the doctor because he’s not been well.” 

I was just like, “Alright, no worries.” 

But deep down I remember thinking, That’s not normal for Mum and Dad not to want to stay for the after-party and celebrate.

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About a year and half passes. Then we win the FA Cup, last May. Dad texted after the game. 

“You coming around tonight, Cock?” 

When I went to the house, everyone sat down in the living room, and Dad said, “I’m doing some tests. And I’m not well.”

I just remember thinking: Tests? What tests? What?

“It’s come back. I’ve got cancer.” 

I said, “What do you mean it’s come back?” And he said the day after we won the Euros, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He’d fought it for a whole year without telling us, and it had gone. And then it came back. 

But he didn’t let on how bad it was. I tried to ask questions, but he’d just palm it off. That was just how he was — caveman. I’d never seen or even known of Dad to cry apart from when Tiger Woods lost or something. Not at his wedding, nothing. Apparently he didn’t even cry when me and Joe were born. So I asked him a few questions that you would ask, but he’d say, “Oh, I don’t know.” He’d just brush it off. In a way, I totally get it because I’m exactly like that. I’ll sit in a room, and someone will be talking to me, and I’ll just shut down. And when it came to talking about the diagnosis, that was Dad. He just switched off.

When he had appointments, I’d ask, “What did they say?”

“Oh, I can’t remember, Cock. You know how these doctors are….” 

I think he didn’t listen because he genuinely didn’t want to know. He didn’t want anything to be different. He didn’t want people to mither about him, none of that. So he went about it the way he wanted, and that was that. I feel like he kissed me and hugged me more. He became a bit softer, which was sweet. But other than that, he was just the same really.

Last summer, he was hospitalised, and I went to see him. We always played this card game together, always. That was our thing. So I sat next to him, and we just played cards for hours, competitive as ever. One day, I remember he texted me out of the blue.

“What are you doing today, Cock? Come around, I’ve got the cards ready.” 

And we just sat and played for ages and ages. I cling to memories like this.

In September, the night before I was heading to Marbella on our preseason tour with United, my family went out to dinner to celebrate my 25th birthday at La Casa, an Italian restaurant we really like. Dad wasn’t doing too well, and hadn’t been eating as much, but this night, he ordered his usual and nailed it. Then he said, “Oh, I’m a bit hot.” So he went and sat in the car while we finished. I think he felt bad about leaving early, so he came back. We took a picture together, and that was the last picture we had.

A few days later, I remember waking up in Marbella to a missed call from my uncle and thinking, That’s not good. He wouldn’t usually ring…. Before I could do anything, he was already ringing back. He said, “I think you need to come home.”

I was sharing a room with Millie Turner, one of my best mates. I hadn’t told many people about it, but I spoke to Millie because I was away and wanted someone to know just in case. Bless her, after my uncle called, Millie was on it. She ran out the door, rang the manager, was ringing everyone, “Tooney needs a flight home now.” She found me one and then rode with me to the airport, 40 minutes in a car, to drop me off. 

When I finally got there, I went straight to see him. I know that he waited for me to come home, and my brother, too.

Everyone was already at the hospital. We were all kissing him and hugging him and touching him and talking to him, which we thought was pretty funny, because the way Dad was, if he were more awake he would have been like, “Piss off!” Like, “Go away.” We laughed about stuff like that, little silly things. Like how my dad and my uncle would always take the mick out of one of their sisters. They’d wind her up like, “Tracy, stop mithering us!”

Tracy was like, “Bloody hell, it’s the first time he’s not told me to get away from him!”

We spent a lot of time with him in those couple of days. And when he passed, we had Neil on, and we stayed by his side.

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My boyfriend, Joe, went for lunch with Dad one day at this cafe around the corner from my house. And I guess Dad came back from paying for the food with a flyer in his hand, for a Neil Diamond tribute act. Dad said to Joe, “Me, you, Ella, Joe [my brother], Karen.”

“Next week is Neil Diamond night.” 

We went, of course. And oh my gosh, he loved it. I’ve never seen him like that before.

He was on the table, he was on the chairs, he was dancing with all these women to the Neil Diamond tribute act. Me and my mum were like, “What is going on??” We were videoing him the whole time having a blast. 

My uncle told us later on that Dad rang him after that night saying it was the best night he’s ever had.

For the funeral, my uncle Dan went searching for that Neil Diamond tribute act and found him and got him to play. The musician was like, “I’ve never played a funeral before.” He was really good. But Grandma said to my uncle, “Tell him to turn it down!”

No one else at the funeral apart from us understood. They were looking like, Why is there a Neil Diamond tribute act playing at the funeral? But we knew how much he loved that night that we had and what that would have meant to him.

Sometimes I think he’s going to come back, like he’s right in the other room waiting for me so he can have a joke or some banter.

- Ella Toone

I’m still processing. This is my first try at really talking about it. Like Dad said, The Toones are not great at feelings. 

But I wanted to write this, for anyone grieving and feeling alone. 

Friends who also have experienced the uniquely awful feeling of losing a parent have helped me massively in the worst part of my life. Now, when people ask, “Who do you look up to?” I say it’s people like Beth Mead and Rach Daly, who’ve continued to play football and be an inspiration after losing someone they love. They’ve helped me, massively. I hope that in the future I can do the same for people in my life who might be going through the same thing. Grief takes a different shape for everyone. But maybe if someone sees me sharing a small piece of my own grief, it might make it a tiny bit easier for them to know that I know what they’re going through is brutal. It’s messy. And that’s alright. Trust me, it’s alright.

But even when I’m at my lowest, sometimes it’s still Dad there to pull me through. That’s the thing about these little memories of his pranks and games, all his silly Dad-isms, Smooth Radio. His voice above the crowd yelling, “COME ON, UNITED!!!” I understand now, that those were all gifts. They were lifelines. He made sure we would feel his presence in every little laugh and hear his voice in every silence.

God, I just wish I could go back to him owing me 10 pounds.

I’d give everything to rewind the journey. But at least I know I was there for every minute. I enjoyed it, like Dad always told me to. I was in the moment with him the whole time. He made sure of that.

One day, me and my mum had to go back to the hospital for the first time since Dad died, to see my nan. And we were a bit not ready for it. When we got in the car “You To Me Are Everything,” their wedding song, came on Smooth. I was like, What? Then when we left the hospital, Madness, “It Must Be Love” came on, another song Dad loved. We couldn’t believe it. 

I could almost hear his voice.

“Who sings this, Cock?”

He’s here. He’s always here. Still trying to wind us up even now.

Love you forever, Dad.