Lucky 13

Why is a number even considered lucky? I mean seriously, does it change a thing in life’s rich tapestry to be wearing a numerical suit of armour? Perhaps it’s a just reassuring crutch for some of us as we navigate stormy waters or uncharted territory. It could be the number related to a lucky win. Possibly the number of a favourite sports position. Logically speaking, it could just be utter nonsense.

Believe it or not, I have a lucky number!

People often assume that 13 became my number because of Royal Navy Rugby League. They see the shirt, the position, the graft - part of the heart of the engine room of the team, and they think the story starts there. But numbers, like people, carry histories long before anyone notices them. My connection to 13 didn’t begin under the stadium lights of Burnaby Road or face down in the mud somewhere up north. No, let’s rewind a little further… Some reckon it started with my Command Field Gun days, when I was the number 13 for my beloved Men of Air. That number was marked on my kit, barked across the track, woven into the rhythm of competition at Earls Court. It mattered, no more so than then, at E C competing in the Royal Tournament, the beautifully fierce rivalry between the three crews, Fleet Air Arm, Portsmouth, and Devonport. It shaped me. Perhaps my greatest days. But even that wasn’t the first chapter for me and the number 13.

To understand why 13 is mine, you have to go back further - to the 1970s and 1980’s, to Hayling Island, to a council house on Ilex Walk. Number 13. That house was small, but the memories were enormous. It was where joy arrived without needing to knock. Where the world felt safe enough for a child to dream. Where the simplest things, a hearty meal (one of Nan‘s roasts), the laughter, the beach, and the red phone box at the end of the road (used for  emergency’s, or the rare call home), all became the foundations of a holiday life, escapism from the normality of school and the daily grind. That’s where 13 first wrapped it’s arms around me.

People talk about lucky numbers as if luck is something that just happens to you. But I’ve learned that luck is often the residue of meaning. It comes from the places, people, and moments that shape you quietly, long before you understand their weight. For me, 13 isn’t tarnished by superstition. It’s a breadcrumb trail back to who I was before the world demanded armour. And where I am right now, it feels like I constantly need to wear my full suit of armour! It’s the boy on a ‘time out from normal life’ safe at Ilex Walk. The young man who ‘manned the loops’ in the Air Arm. The player who wore the shirt with pride. The man who’s still standing (well sitting), still swinging, still refusing to give in.

If there’s grit in my story, it’s because life has a way of testing the things you claim to believe. And 13 has always been my reminder that even in the toughest rounds, there’s something solid beneath your feet, something that belongs to you and can’t be taken.

So yes, 13 is my number. But not because of sport or service, perhaps it was my destiny to wear the number 13 through these times? My love for the number certainly intensified due to these memories. 13 is my heading, my bearing on my compass. My anchor. My quiet truth from a council house on Hayling Island, where I first learned what it meant to feel lucky. Lucky 13. Always has been. Always will be. Some of my pals have joked and urged me to change my so-called lucky number, as it doesn’t seem to be working out too well for me! Never! And who is to say that things have turned out the way they have because of my favourite number being 13? What if things, and obviously we’re talking about my disability, could have been worse without my lucky 13 shield.

And let me try to explain to those who encouraged me to switch lucky numbers, why I personally find them (although humorous,) per chance hasty in their judgement, and why this all up for debate… it’s about the Apollo 13 space mission to the moon and how perspective is key to the outcome of our experience within the universe, and the influence of superstition.

Apollo 13 launched in 1970 and nearly ended in tragedy. The mission lifted off on 11 April 1970, It was contentiously said to be doomed due to the number of the mission (although the crew were not superstitious at all about the number 13,) and they all returned safely on 17 April 1970. After an oxygen‑tank explosion that gave the world the immortal line: “Houston, we’ve had a problem,” an unforgettable series of events unfolded. The crew: Jim Lovell, Jack Swigert, and Fred Haise, were all, astonishingly and against the odds, safe and without injury on splashdown in the Pacific Ocean. It became known as a “successful failure” - the mission failed, but the crew survived against extraordinary odds.

The world watched in real time as NASA improvised solutions to keep the astronauts alive. It remains one of the most dramatic and defining moments in human spaceflight. The stream of catastrophic events and the crew's resilience united the world in prayer and the hope of a positive outcome. The crew managed to do what no world leader, sport or religion ever has. So in my view this was the greatest success of all. although the mission was not successful in terms of its objectives (landing on the moon,) it remains one of most important.

Neil Armstrong landed on the Moon during Apollo 11, and his famous first words as he stepped onto the lunar surface were: “That’s one small step for (a) man, one giant leap for mankind.” Making a tenuous connection or analogy between this monumental statement and my life if I dare. It’s true that I may never take so much as a small step in my life again (although I keep the faith and will never give up hope) – but, I do believe due to my disability, I have taken a giant leap forward in my personal development. So perhaps the crew of Apollo 11 took a small step, and the crew of Apollo 13 took the giant leap?

I rest my case- Lucky 13