Football: An Apology

It has come to my attention that I have been masquerading as a footballer. This condition manifests itself in the following manner:

On Tuesday evenings, the thought that the lads from the mighty Dynamo Choughs will be playing outdoor football on one of the excellent pitches at Mount's Bay School slithers into my mind. Before I know it, I have changed into shorts, trainers and highly stylish QPR sweatshirt. Then I start warming up in my living room, like a footballer. Next I start flicking a ball about, again very much as footballers are wont to do. Soon enough, my metamorphosis is complete. I am a footballer.

Convinced of this, I arrive at Mount's Bay for the Tuesday evening game. The first indication that I am not a footballer comes when the captains are appointed. Whereas for most of my life as an amateur player of renown amid the muddy parks of London and the south-west, I would always be one of the first to be picked by a captain - why sometimes, I'd even be the captain! - now I am the last to be picked. I stand around, knowing that I will be the last to be picked, trying not to show that I am embarrassed and inwardly convincing myself that I will score a hat-trick and prove the doubters (ie, everyone) wrong. But though I am the last to be picked, I still believe that I am a footballer.

The game begins. I play up front, as I did for 25 years or more for various teams that no one has ever heard of, legends in their own lunchboxes all. The ball comes to me. The excitement! I go to control it. My wonky left leg scuppers this simple act. Frustrated, I hope for better luck next time. The same thing happens again, and again. If I have to run for the ball, I have no chance of getting to it; if I have to turn and beat my opponent, something that I used to be pretty good at, I am doomed to failure.

As the game goes on my frustration grows. Still, though, I live in hope. I continue to believe that I am a footballer. The ball is played in to me from the right wing; I shape myself nicely and connect well with my right foot, that which is attached to the leg that works. The keeper makes a miraculous save. I am played in again a few minutes later. No less miraculously, I get to the ball and hit it well enough, again with the instep of the foot that is part of the leg that works. Again, my shot is saved. But nevertheless, I cannot but wonder. With two decent shots in quick succession, are things improving? Am I, after all, still a footballer? No, for then the ball comes to me and the stupid left leg fails to work. The ball hits it and rolls off for a throw in.

Andy Tanner, a longboarder from these parts, is on the opposing team. He discerns that rage is simmering inside, a clue coming from the choice words I mutter and the pyschotic glare in my eyes. "Alex, keep going mate," he says. "Don't give up. At least you're out here."

Later Mr Greg, the former Mr P Pilot, makes a similar observation. "I can see that somehow things don't quite work, but you still make good runs. At least you're still playing."

But, comrades, I am not playing. Yes, if I'm doing keepie-uppie or passing the ball around I still look as if I know what I'm doing, but the cruel truth is that having a slightly spastic left leg does not a footballer make. Moreover, the constant fear of the ball hitting me hard in the head is a confidence-sapper. This also diminishes my once legendary game. It also means that I don't take a turn in goal, something I'm delighted about because I always hated having to go in goal, but which I can appreciate is frustrating for everyone else.

So, to football, to the Choughs, and to those who, long-sufferingly, tell me that I should quit while I'm ahead and hang up my boots, I would like to apologise. It has come to my attention that I am no longer a footballer.

(Editor's note: People who play football in brown suits have no place in the modern game.)

Comments

[foot massager]

soooo cool that looks great! I love a good this book it fills me with happyness!the book and lots of loveliness.

[Mark Tyers]

What about 5 a side? No need for heading and many more touches of the ball...