"Football? But....you like films....and stuff...."
Apparently the two are seen as mutually exclusive to many. To this day I spend a solid 95% of my waking life watching football, talking about football, or reading about football. Up until I started college at 19, I used to play a bit too. Four or five days a week to be accurate. I was on a couple of teams. Never a great player, but I could hold my own, had an eye for a pass and a solid finish. Still could get knocked off a ball by so much as a persistent breeze, mind, and had the pace of a geriatric turtle....with one remaining leg....a leg which was broken.....a comatose geriatric turtle. College saw me reduced to playing only once or twice a month. And aside from a couple of lazy kickabouts every couple of years, I've scarcely put foot to ball in a solid six years. I still remember the last couple of times I played.....
The penultimate was a bit of a fun 5-a-side with a mate on a pitch featuring some of his college compadres. I was kinda pumped because the girl I was going out with was sitting on the sidelines "cheering me on" (she took the piss....relentlessly) and I wanted to show her what I could do. I stepped out onto the pitch with an assured, borderline cocky swagger (I still sometimes feel that surge of cockiness when I glimpse myself in the mirror and think "holy shit, I get to sleep with that!"). Within five minutes I could no longer stand; I had somehow developed and burst a blister on the base of my foot. It looked like I'd been shot. I tried to fight on, jumping in between the sticks, but I was gimped. My last, and only notable contribution on that day was to hurl myself to the ground in an effort to block a shot, bruise the fuck out of my tailbone and crawl off to the side like a dejected slug at a snail soiree. I looked to the girl for those crumbs of comfort from a loved one- the disgust was palpable.
The final outing was just a few weeks later. Same venue, same guys, one spectator light. Apparently my girlfriend didn't want to experience such shame again. I could not fault her decision. Nonetheless, what turned out to be my apparent swan-song, was a rousing success. A few minutes of uncertainty from team-mates whose only previous exposure to my merits had been greatly underwhelming, turned to a focal point position after I cracked one in off the bar from range. Played a stormer (girlfriend never did believe me on that one), and settled into retirement....
....or so I thought.
"Fancy 7-a-side tonight?"
And that is how this week began. My overseas debut, after six years out of the game. Bring it on, Scotland!
Suffice to say, I wasn't awash with my previous self-assuredness. Six years was a long time to have been out of the game. When last I played, I very rarely drank. I'd only been drunk once, perhaps twice in my young life. Now, I was a football cliche- the washed-up superstar who struggles to replace the feeling of adulation that comes with that glory on the field of play, and so drowns his ever-deepening depression under a flood of alcohol and regret. I didn't even have the right attire. I wasn't sure if I could still move the long dormant left side of my body. I guessed I'd learn soon enough.
Standing there, overlooking the astro-turf at 22.30 on a freezing Monday night, in mismatched attire (an outfit that went from Dublin jersey down past long black shorts and chicken legs all the way to the bright green runners with no grip to speak of), I was amazed at how massive the pitch looked. It was daunting. Would I have any of my craft, touch or finesse remaining? And then it was time to find out....
The ball rolled to my feet, my right shot out as a long forgotten reflex and that ball was under my control. I looked up for an out ball, but I didn't even know who most of the guys were at that point, let alone who was on my side. Shit, I'd give it a whirl and throw myself in at the deep end. I turned to face the dude closing in on me in his Barca jersey, Messi on the back as if to broadcast the confidence he had in his own abilities. Cock it, I was gonna teach this fuck-weasel! I shaped to go right, dropped a shoulder and dragged it past him like he wasn't even there.
It was instinct. I'd never left the game, and it hadn't left me. Time to put on a masterclass. Past one, I lifted my head up to pick out a pass, half thinking about snaking past the next lad while I was at it, and then....wait....I didn't have the ball anymore. Fucking Messi! I turned to give chase, a quick burst of acceleration belying my years in the wilderness, as he closed in on goal. Then things got a bit fuzzy.
I found myself staring at the ceiling.
Seems I'd stumbled a bit in my pursuit, about three steps in. Small amount of blood on the knee, a feeling of momentary shame on the mind. Fuck it. Dusted myself off and jumped back to my feet. Maybe I needed to ease myself back into the swing of things a bit slower. I hung back dutifully, taking up a spot of man-marking, and watching things unfold ahead. Long ball chipped forward, and my quarry had spun in behind in eager anticipation of the ball dropping in beyond our haphazard backline. Nah, I read it dropping short. Got my head to it with a satisfying *thwack* and settled back into shoring up the defence. That was more like it.
Messi. The ball had been sprayed out wide to him, and he was whippet quick. Fleet footed and single-minded, he pulsed down the wing unguarded. Surprise motherfucker! I'm gonna Doakes your shit up, and avenge the mockery we had combined to make of me at the start, I backed off, holding him up to let my comrades get back in position. A little feint right, a shimmy left and a slightly heavy touch....he was mine now.
I was staring at the ceiling again. Except this time, I could only make out the half that my left eye was checking. In my right, nothing but the dark remnants of this thumbprint. Patted myself down once more, and got on with it. We were one down now. I offered up a hand in apology for my wild swipe at the ball that had essentially driven Messi's thumb into my eye and knew I needed to get up the other end to show my strengths didn't just lie in making angels on the astro-turf. As the ball broke loose up top, I sprinted forward....
.....nope. Fuck that! Not gonna happen. I clutched my chest for a moment and tried to catch whatever breath remained. Once the shooting pains had subsided down my left arm, I knew this was not going to be a glorious tour de force. For the next hour or so, I was mostly a passenger. A gasping, wheezing passenger, drooling with every uncoordinated step as I lurched up and down the pitch. There was a second wind. Third and fourth winds too. Only these weren't the winds of change that come from an athlete pushing themselves on to succeed and breaking through the wall. No, these were the kinds of wind you'd find from your grandad after Christmas dinner. One or two touches that reminded me of what I once could do, and one tragically wild slapshot at goal aside, I stuck to covering space and picking up loose men (like a Vietnamese hooker). I even took up the gloves and went in nets for the last couple of minutes. I was called on to make one save. Still, a clean sheet's a clean sheet.
Trudging to the bus stop like Igor up the steps to Castle Frankenstein, my limbs screaming with the silent agony of fifty burning mimes, we shared tales of our painful exploits.
Guy #1: "I did my knee in a couple of months back in a league game against some Raith Rovers fans. Slight twinge when I chipped in the last one, but a decent run out."
Guy #2: "Yeah, when I put my second past the keeper, I did feel a little ripple going up the back of my hamstrings."
Deebs: "Er....felt a bit of a jolt in my elbow while I was applauding your hat-trick."
And it was with that final nail in the coffin of my night's pride that I declared my intentions to get in shape. Not a resolution for a new year, but an immediate statement of intent to be realised. No half measures this time.
Just watch me.
Typing this in hour 12 of consecutive couch sitting as I procrastinate to avoid washing away the dish based remnants of last night's Chinese take-away, I know the truth of this failure as well as you. Fuck it. Perhaps, instead of lying to myself about attaining some measure of physical fitness, I'll just accept my fate and embrace it.
If you need me, I'll be over here smoking a pipe.
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