This week, we’re exploring what goes on before a book even begins to take shape; and in this case, what’s leading to the sequel of Confessions of an Ageing Football Player, out some time later this year. The story so far… I’ve been prescribed a course of pills and some time on a football pitch; I’ve faced up to the terrors of the weigh in and am about to face, in this third and final exploration of what leads to a sequel, an uncomfortable truth.
“OK, thanks.” I stepped tentatively onto the weighing contraption, not daring to look down into the Gorge of Eternal Peril and held my breath, waiting for Thumper to call out the answer. “What did he say?” I asked a neighbour presumably called Roger, given that was the name on the back of his football shirt. Thumper’s announcement had been lost in the swell of the bunnies’ banter and cheering which had surfaced when the results of the season’s efforts had been announced.
“What did you say?” Roger returned my question, fidgeting with his hearing aid.
“I said… never mind, it’s not important right now.”
“What did you say?” repeated Roger. I felt I was about to enter an infinite loop of conversational dread so made my apologies and followed the ragtag and bobtail teams out towards the pitches. It turns out that I’ve been allocated a place on the blue team, on the account of my wearing a blue t-shirt which seemed pretty reasonable. What seemed less reasonable was the sight of several teams limbering up across the pitches, showing off their ball skills and in several cases, scampering sidewards along the touch line, flapping their arms up and down in time to an inaudible sound track. This looked like a lot of serious exercise (not a problem) in preparation for some serious games of football on what looked like some very long pitches (definitely a problem).
“Is that the pitch we’re playing on?” I enquired of the blue team captain, Vienna, nodding to the expanse of astroturf ahead of us, stretching off into the night sky. He nodded in return. “Seems rather long doesn’t it?”
“You’ll get used to it in no time.” I thought this was highly unlikely. Running the length of a football pitch was something I had veered away from for many, many years for long-buried reasons and the idea that I would somehow gloss over that history and comfortably take to navigating this very long pitch seemed implausible. I was then immediately hit on the back of my head by a stray football which some over-eager rabbit had kicked in my direction without alerting me to its wind speed or direction of travel.
The ball had the effect of knocking my glasses off and all at once my inability to see anything at all without them rudely reminded me exactly why football pitches and their assorted paraphenalia of banter, balls and bollocks had not been graced with my presence for over half a century. “That’s it,” I thought. “I’m off. I can’t see a thing, I’ve got no ball skills, I’ve no idea what’s happening on the pitch and I feel like the ground is opening up in front of me. I’m off.” Yet another Gorge of Eternal Peril loomed ever clearer with each passing second, despite my impaired vision. My GP was going to be informed that this prescription definitely wasn’t going to be working for me. And if it meant that my research into the sequel of my footballing confessionals had come to end, then so be it. At least my legs wouldn’t get broken in the meantime.
“Come on, you’re on!” Vienna called over to me enthusiastically. “We’re one player down! We need you!” I was temporarily flattered. I looked at the ever-expanding pitch; I looked at the welcoming club house; I looked at my car. Should I stay or should I go?
You can find out later this year whether this tale gets told. But in the meantime why not check the book that started it all here:
Confessions of an Ageing Football Player
73 – nil! Those were the days: moments of glory on the school playing field on a foggy Wednesday afternoon when the final whistle went and your school mates would gather around you, beaming their small faces at you from every conceivable direction as they congratulated you fulsomely on the 23 hat tricks you have just completed in your team’s undeniable slaughter of the opposition…
The pages of this book will transport you back to those cherished early moments of your footballing endeavours. It offers a thrilling journey through the 2014 Brazil World Cup, a time when the possibilities for players of all skill levels felt boundless. At its heart, this is a 78-year-old man’s tale of determination and achievement in the sport he holds dear: Subbuteo Table Football.
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