Lying in bed last week my wife asked me how I old I was going to be on my birthday. Forty-four was the disappointing reply. Forty-four feels completely grown up. There is no way of spinning it. You are an adult.
I then questioned myself. Perhaps I’m a year younger. I was born in 1979. So if I turned one in 1980, then I was 10 in 1990, 20 in 2000 etc. So I was turning 43!
I slept well – I’d gained a year of my life. But there was a nagging doubt that something wasn’t quite right. I checked again. The internet said I was already 43. Now at one point Wikipedia declared me a member of the British National Party and in a relationship with Louis Walsh – so not necessarily to be relied upon.
But I did the maths again (before Rishi Sunak asks, I have maths A-level, further maths in fact) and that rudimentary failure to realise that one plus 10 does not equal 10 had me back where I was the night before: 43.
You’re 43 until you’re 44. And now I am 44.
Forty-four and suffering from plantar fasciitis – my podiatrist has told me to avoid all sport until June. Insoles, shockwave therapy, massage, acupuncture, golf balls, tennis balls, frozen Lucozade bottles, heel raises, a small vibrating thing I bought online to Velcro to my heel, a lifelong commitment to calf stretching – nothing is quite working. But Jonny Evans got through it, so there is hope.
Unlike Evans I have no meniscus in my left knee. Then there’s the inability not to finish an entire block of Tony’s Milk Chocolonely in one sitting and the exhaustion of being a parent with a one-year-old whose default waking time is 4.25am.
And yet this Sunday – the season starts late in Australia – I begin the 35th (I think) successive year of my 11-a-side career.
From school under-10s on full-size pitches in Cambridge where no one, not even James Sullivan, could get a goal-kick out of the penalty area, to sixth-form games against the police and the army; from the carpets of HSBC and Bank of England to the tundra of Gunnersbury Park and the hill at Finchley in the Southern Amateur League.
From an ACL to fused ankle ligaments, from twisting my little finger 180 degrees away at Cheltenham Uni and requiring general anaesthetic to face planting on sandy Astro at the Westway in the London Legal League. Pulling hamstrings stretching for a ball over the top, strengthening them and pulling quads on the comeback. Cramp. So much cramp. Miles of ankle strapping. Ice packs and peas. So many peas. And of course that guy inserting his fingers where he shouldn’t at Carshalton.
And now to Melbourne. 3pm. Sunday. Central Park – pitch one. Pitch one. Sounds impressive. Metropolitan League 8 (eight) – less impressive. The Melbourne University Bohemians begin away at Prahan City FC. In our last pre-season match I played in one Puma King and one orthopaedic trainer. But I scored. A goal that made David Nugent’s sole England effort look difficult – but that feeling, drink it in. I’ve told the gaffer I can do only 20 minutes. But in the moment who knows?
Why can’t I give up? It’s been a good run – my knees want a break, I can barely walk the day after. It’s halfway to being the happy “and finally” local news story of an 80-year-old who’s still putting his boots on. “Can you just put Dubbin on that left one again Alf – we need to film it from a different angle?”
It is impossible to let go. It is ingrained – I can’t hold a conversation with anyone when I walk past a kickabout in the park, desperate for the ball to come near me so I can show a group of complete strangers my cultured left foot when I knock it back.
I can’t leave WhatsApp groups of former teams. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking of a one-on-one I missed for Poly 4s at home to Old Actonians in the early 2000s. I had so much time – if anything too much time, Jeff. I can remember goals from cubs football yet can’t remember who won the FA Cup last year.
It is that chance to get lost – to worry about nothing else. Work contracts, interest rates, my carbon footprint, whether my son did actually drink any of that paint he poured over himself on Tuesday. It all disappears – the mind is consumed with one thought. Can I volley this ball back to the thrower and not just lace it out of play?
Maybe the desire to carry on is a desperation to cling to youth – even as you get to the later stages of the life of an amateur footballer. There was a time I could be hungover before the game – and then listen to the old men in the bar complaining about the cost of childcare and going grey, having pints bought for me. And suddenly you’re organising it all, getting the jugs in, and learning what Tinder and TikTok are from the kids in the squad and spending the rest of the week trying to get a tenner off everyone.
From centre-forward to centre-mid to centre-back, to the vets and back up front. From whiling away evenings afterwards discussing the game in The Station House to shooting off before the game’s finished to be back for storytime.
Older players might scoff at a mere 35 years – respect to them. “Never stop playing because once you stop you won’t start again.” I used to hear it. Now I say it. I’m probably just talking to myself.
But reflecting on those not lucky enough – whose bodies let them down in their 20s, or those who are no longer with us – you can’t stop. All the teammates – lifelong friends or one-off ringers (“today Steve, your name is Dan Kane”) – what a huge part of life.
And so to Sunday. We may concede early. Frank won’t connect with another overhead kick. Quentin’s in Bali – that’s an issue. There’ll be kamikaze playing out from the back, a lot of “Shape, off me off me, feet – FEET”. I still don’t know the words of the victory song (there’s a victory song – I was sceptical but you’ve got to embrace it) but let’s hope we’re singing at 4.45pm. We go again.
