Last night I played football with the collective known as The Dynamo Choughs. A hugely significant event happened towards the end of the game. Yes, I dropped back and played a sort of holding midfielder role. The reason for this earth-shattering development is that, aged 46 and with more injuries than can feasibly be listed/of interest, it finally dawned on me that playing up front isn't really an option anymore. I just don't have the mobility or speed.
I saw more of the ball in the 10 or 15 minutes I played at the back than for the preceding 60. What's more, I suddenly started enjoying the game. How rewarding to have the ball at one's feet! To have the time and space to look up and pass it! Why, even to have an influence on the game!
After the game I did something I haven't done in all the months since my comeback became a reality (ie, most of 2012). I went for a drink with the lads. In the Crown, in deepest Penzance, it transpired that the Choughs' annual awards were handed out. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I did not win Striker of the Year. My thunderbolt of a goal against the 15-year-olds a couple of months ago wasn't mentioned when it came to Goal of the Season. And shockingly, I was not even a contender when it came to Speediest Player of the Year. But readers, I did not leave the pub empty-handed.
Yes, I was the recipient of the inaugural and fiercely contested Lazarus Award, this bestowed upon the Player who was Returned from a Career-Ending Injury.
I am reborn. And I know my destiny. I will no longer play up front. And, as a result of a fiendish plan concocted in the febrile minds of myself and Christian Guerrini, The Dynamo Choughs are on the rise. Watch this space.
Pictured courtesy of Sergey Yeliseev: a chough, looking on, inscrutably, as choughs do.