It’s a warm June afternoon in 2009. The teams look uneven. At 30, I am the second-oldest player in our lineup. Lloyd, Nathan and Ben are early 20s – they can all play. Micky the German isn’t in top condition, and at 34 is past his peak. But at a conservative estimate every member of the opposition has two more decades in their legs. A couple of them might be pushing 70. We’re in kit. They are in jeans. We have trainers. They’re in boots – working boots, not “cleats”. And yet after an hour we have been beaten to a pulp. The final score evades my memory, but it might be the only six-a-side I’ve ever played in where “next goal wins” wasn’t a vaguely justifiable way to end things.
How had this team of old men beaten us? A word you may have heard more often than usual in the last three days: altitude. In a village somewhere near Lake Titicaca, just shy of 4,000m above sea level, a motley selection of Bolivian farmers had toyed with us. As someone who lets the ball do the work, even a five-yard burst left me breathless. It was not a neutral venue.
