Oedipus in Boots: A Father-Son Football Saga
A remorseless Nordic striker scoring goals against anybody who stands in their way? Callum Turner explains why, in Orri Óskarsson's case, this now-familiar story is a little bit different.
On the 2nd of August 2023 in Copenhagen, as fans packed into the Parken Stadium under a delicate blanket of drizzling rain, the weather could have made considerably more effort to foreshadow what they were about to see. Little did they know that before the night was over, they were going to witness young Orri Óskarsson commit a murder and bag the match ball while he was at it.
An alarming phenomenon is currently unfurling across the Nordic Isles, leaving even the world's foremost intellectuals, scholars, and theologians astounded. According to their best estimates, this upheaval can be attributed to the reawakening of an ancient deity. Lain dormant for the past few centuries, a scourge has arisen, and it’s pissed off. In response, this maniacal, divine entity has unleashed a bitter force majeure upon the footballing landscape, casting an ominous shadow over the sport.
Like most acts of transcendental, retributive justice, punishment has materialised in the form of a plague. Yet, this is no ordinary plague. It isn’t your usual benign dispersal of mildly irritating insects or a new frightening sub-strain of a disease. No, this retribution has taken the shape of a monstrous assembly line. Hidden within the landscapes of Scandinavia, a conveyor belt now churns out a relentless stream of talismanic young footballers, sent down to wreak untold chaos within the confines of the 18-yard box.
These marksmen of the apocalypse are distinguished by their sagacious precision, clinical execution, and unrelenting absence of remorse. Take, for instance, Haaland, who, at the time of writing, boasts 196 goals in 259 appearances; or Alexander Isak, who's already made 20 goal contributions in 38 matches for Newcastle, without accounting for his mesmerising dribble against Everton — when he channelled the spirit of peak va-va-voom-era Thierry Henry and left half the opposing team in a chronic stupor, only to be denied the assist by a ricochet off Patterson; then there's Martin Ødegaard, whose guile and grace have played a pivotal role in Arsenal's resurgence; and Rasmus Højlund, though unproven by conventional metrics of lethality, possesses all the attributes necessary to soon start terrorising Premier League defences.
While the aforementioned have a growing rap sheet of crimes against (footballing) nature, the latest to emerge might just be the worst. Enter: Orri Óskarsson. If you thought the superabundant menace, with the splaying, mechanical steampunk-gait, that is Erling Haaland was the coldest-hearted creature to ever grace the turf, think again. Orri doesn't just shatter opposition hearts; he severs family ties in the process.
To trace the roots of this saga, we must venture back to Orri's homeland of Iceland, where surnames follow a patronymic tradition. Under this system, the second name is derived from the father's first name, which means that Orri's second name, Óskarsson, essentially translates to "Óskar's son." However, Orri's father handed him down more than his name. Like many young boys, Orri inherited his passion for the game from his patriarch. Yet, unlike most boys, he received something even more extraordinary from his father – his professional debut, at the tender age of 13 years and 354 days.
Óskarsson’s debut came in 2018, during a league game for Íþróttafélagið Grótta in the Icelandic third division. Without dulling the shine of this lovely nepotistic story, and with all due respect to Grótta, they aren't a team young lads dream of playing for growing up. To put it into context, their stadium boasts a modest capacity of approximately 300, and the football club stands as just one branch of a larger sports organisation encompassing gymnastics and powerlifting. In fact, the club is most renowned for its handball team. Nevertheless, responding to the call of his father, Orri came on as a sub and astonishingly found the back of the net twice, all under the proud and watchful gaze of his old man, resulting in a resounding 5-0 victory. In that particular season, he played three games and scored three goals, an impressive return for someone still on the cusp of adolescence. Adding to this remarkable narrative, his father impressively steered the club toward promotion, marking an extraordinary year for the footballing family.
The following season, Orri played 12 of 22 games and scored one goal. Grótta, by all accounts, exceeded expectations, clinching the league title, and securing their place in the upper echelons of Icelandic football. It was the quintessential underdog tale, the type that invariably strikes a chord within the world of football, and it sent reverberations of astonishment throughout the entire nation. For his pivotal role in masterminding this unprecedented triumph, Óskar Hrafn was awarded this mouthful, ‘Coach of the Year in Icelandic Sports, at the Icelandic Sportsperson the Year Awards’.
After the 2019 season, the father and son duo parted ways, each leaving the club for pastures new. Óskar Hrafn took up the reins at Breiðablik and Orri joined the youth set up at Copenhagen. Your classic mythic pilgrimage, a banishment from the paternal citadel into the mysterious labyrinth of personal growth. As some of you might know from experience, times like these are catalysts for a young man’s development and they can often expose the unique and multifaceted nature of father-son relationships.
Countless psychiatrists have tried to unpick the mysteries of the father complex, with luminaries like Freud and Jung delving into this intricate terrain, drawing inspiration from the legendary tale of Oedipus, literature's most famous patricide. They are often our greatest heroes and most prominent antagonists, embodying both roles in one juxtaposing relationship. We spend the nascent years of our lives striving to impress them, to emulate them, while during our intricate formative years, we seek to surpass them, to triumph over them — and if you ascribe to Freud’s line of thinking, kill them.
Upon arrival at Copenhagen, our would-be killer immediately set about proving he has a ruthless streak, scoring a truckload of goals for the U17 and U19 teams and helping them win their respective leagues. He matured quickly and subsequently made his professional debut for the Danish champions in the climatic match of the 2022 season, a resounding 3-0 victory against Aalborg BK. Then came a loan spell at Danish First Division side Sønderjyske, where he notched up four goals in twelve appearances. Meanwhile, back in Iceland, the man who had initially paved his path in professional football was occupied, steering Breiðablik to a commendable league runners-up position in 2021 and ultimately securing the title the following year, consequently qualifying for the preliminary rounds of the Champions League.
Breiðablik blazed through the initial rounds, overwhelming San Marino's Tre Penne and Montenegrin side Budućnost Podgorica with scores of 7-1 and 5-0, respectively. Their momentum continued as they triumphed over Dublin's finest, Shamrock Rovers, with a convincing 3-1 aggregate score in the first qualifying round. In the meantime, Orri was tottering along on a path that is sometimes called destiny, linking back up with his parent club Copenhagen who, due to winning their domestic league, joined the second qualifying round where, in a twist of fate fitting of polytheistic mythology, they were drawn to face none other than Breiðablik.
In the first leg at Breiðablik’s ground, Orri made a cameo appearance in the 71st minute, when the game had already been settled by goals from Copenhagen’s Larsson and Falk, not much of an opportunity to impress upon his paterfamilias. But then came the second leg at Copenhagen’s ground. Orri, up until this point, had been cutting his teeth in exile, training, becoming sharper, stronger, and more lethal. Now was his opportunity to eternally overhaul his family dynamic and seize the role of resident big man. And seize it he did, in emphatic fashion.
He was chosen for the starting 11 but almost immediately seemed to bottle it, laying off a sloppy pass to his midfielder that was pounced upon, leading to a Breiðablik opener — a looping volley from Jason Daði Svanþórsson over Copenhagen’s helpless, masked goalkeeper Kamil Grabara. Despite Guardiola’s accusations last season that the mask granted the keeper superhuman abilities, the aggregate score was now 2-1 and the tie was legitimately back on.
That was until former Nottingham Forest man Diogo Gonçalves wrapped a neat freekick around the wall and into the bottom right corner and, two minutes later, Elias Achouri rolled in Copenhagen’s second. The home crowd only had to wait another two minutes for Óskarsson to finally leave his indelible mark on the game. Atoning for his earlier mistake, he orchestrated a delicate return pass to Jordan Larsson, who, with his first touch, lifted the ball over the oncoming defender and with his second touch, deftly chipped it over the keeper. It was now the 37th minute, 3-1 on the night and 5-1 on aggregate. You would assume it would be time for Copenhagen to sit back and play out the rest of the game in second gear, but this is football, this is drama (and in this situation, more importantly) this is the shifting tectonic transformation of family hegemony.
Óskarsson could see his old man in disarray, outperformed, outclassed and out of his depth on this stage. So, how did the young prodigy react in this pivotal moment? He responded as any young apex predator does when it senses the changing of the guard. He went on the attack. Within minutes, Óskarsson surged forward, latching onto a precise through ball from Gonçalves. With a deft feint, he left his marker bewildered before elegantly chipping the ball over the onrushing goalkeeper, all in a seamless, one-touch motion. He then proceeded to knee-slide into the corner, ripping a pathway through the turf and his father’s dreams alike. He cupped his ears, savouring every decibel of the jubilant home crowd's celebrations and ensuring he wouldn't miss a beat of the bittersweet symphony that resonated through the stadium — a melody that also carried the distinct tearing of his dad’s heart.
The first half ended 4-1 and Þorvaldsson appeared visibly exasperated. Still, he might have clung to the hope of retaining the turkey-carving rights this Jólin, as long as the massacre stopped there. But the boy wasn’t done. The second half had barely kicked off when Orri once again conjured an instinctive first-time finish, finding the back of the net with remarkable ease. He proceeded to make his way to the corner for yet another celebration. This time, his outstretched arms resembled Christ, a figure of ascension and deliverance. Orri, the redeemer oppressor.
Þorvaldsson’s eleven other sons hit back with their second of the night, showing a glimmer of resilience. However, their hopes were short-lived. Mere moments later, a Copenhagen clearance was pumped upfield, sailing past the Breiðablik left back who found himself easily outmuscled by Óskarsson. Orri was now one-on-one with Breiðablik’s backpedalling last bastion of hope and final line of defence. With a light swivel of the hips, Orri manoeuvred past as if he was nothing more than a stationary training cone, a mildly inconvenient formality in his path. From just outside the box, he calmly slotted the ball into the corner of the net, cementing his dominance and further asserting his ascendancy in this familial football duel.
He made his way to the corner one last time; it was another knee slide but a half-arsed lackadaisical one. He wasn't truly celebrating anymore, not in the same way. You can draw your own conclusions about whether this change was due to a sense of pity for his defeated father or the diminishing returns of joy that one experiences when hitting the back of the net shifts from an achievement to an inevitability.
One thing we can be certain of; Þorvaldsson despises pity. In an interview last year, following their elimination from the Third Qualifying round of the UEFA Conference by Istanbul Basaksehir, he left no room for doubt. "Dude, stop with the compliments," he declared. "This is just another form of 'pity talk.' We don't need your sympathy or praise if we lose. We must reach the point where anything other than victory is unacceptable." So perhaps it may have been kinder to carry on being cruel.
In less than ten minutes on the pitch, we witnessed a metamorphosis take place. A chrysalis burst out from its state of incubation, transformed into the game’s latest great Nordic killer, and claimed his first fatality, his poor old dad. This kind of domestic revolution unfolds daily around the world, hidden in the private dramas of countless families. Þorvaldsson, unfortunately for him, experienced it in the unforgiving public arena of European football. Setting aside all the jokes and mythological metaphors, one thing is certain: he must be proud. When all is said and done, the father’s role is to provide the tools for his son to make it in a cruel and unforgiving world, and European football can be a very cruel and unforgiving place.
However, there's a compelling reason why Orri's only European goals, so far, were scored on that memorable night in Copenhagen, even though he has made nine appearances in UEFA competitions. It's a phenomenon deeply ingrained in the heart of every lad who has ever laced up his boots on a Sunday morning to trudge around a waterlogged pitch and have lumps kicked out of them, all in the hope that somewhere in the midst of it all, a game of football might break out. It's simple but profound: you just play better when your dad is watching.
Óskar Hrafn has since left his post at Breiðablik, stepping down after a 0-2 loss against Stjärn in the last game of the Besta League. He now looks odds on to step into a new role at Danish First Division side Haugesund. Orri is continuing to rack up goals at Copenhagen and has a total of 7 in 17 for the first team. His club's next big fixture is a huge European night under the floodlights in Manchester, where they are looking to take advantage of United’s poor European form this season to snatch an improbable victory. Hopefully, whether in the stadium or not, Þorvaldsson will be watching somewhere — providing that additional dose of motivation that frequently translates into an extra yard of pace, a spark of ingenuity, or that added composure in front of goal. One thing we know for certain is, thanks to Orri, he won’t be busy that night anyway.
In the end, we don’t follow football just for the goals and the cup runs. Don’t get me wrong they’re a great part of it, but football, in its essence, is a tapestry of interweaving narratives with threads that run through families, quests for mythological status, and the general theatre of sport. Amidst all the spectacles football offers, it's the human drama that unfolds on and off the pitch that truly resonates with our hearts, and in Orri Óskarsson's story, we find a narrative as compelling and timeless as the ancient myths themselves.