Friday Evening with Football Injuries
It’s not a pretty way to commence today’s episode, but I need to start by reporting the fact that for most of my adult life, my legs have been decorated with an ever changing array of bruises. Sometimes they appear in unappealing clusters, now and again the odd angry red welt, and more occasionally than I’d like, I find myself sporting a pancake sized monstrosity that fortunately remains mostly hidden from small children and others of a sensitive humour. It’s really not an engaging sight, but it’s a regular affliction, about which little can be done. “What’s up with him?” you’re no doubt wondering. “Is he unwell? Does he suffer from some as yet unexplained affliction for which a cure is yet to be discovered? Will he make it to Iceland in September as planned?”
The answer to all of the questions you’ve been asking yourself thus far is that his legs would soon return to their intended state if he did what most people of his age had done and stopped playing five a side football twice a week. I can’t help it. It’s just something I’ve always done because I love it, and I’m not yet ready to hang up my trainers, even though the pool of regulars has undergone a seismic demographic shift since we returned from lockdown twelve months ago. When the arrival of the pandemic put everything on hold, most of us were over fifty. Within three months of the resumption of hostilities, a sudden raft of old age retirements saw an influx of youthful types, fitter and faster than those they’d replaced. In the meantime, the stamina levels that enabled me to run non-stop for an hour and still feel fresh, helped by two completed marathons and several halves in the months before lockdown had been replaced by a lethargic indolence that saw my running career all but finish completely. I was never that keen on running unless I was scampering after a ball to be honest.
But why the bruises? Well I never said I was the most skilful of footballers. Try anything too elaborate and I usually end up lying in a heap on the sports hall floor. What I could do though was run about making a nuisance of myself and getting in the way of the more gifted players, blocking their efforts with whatever part of my body I could place between the goal and the ball in a hurry. While others totted up their goals, I counted the purple and yellow patches on my shins and thighs as if they were badges of honour. At least they were complementary opposites on the colour wheel.
But those days seem like a thing of the past now. And with the loss of fitness, the bruises I used to collect began to dwindle too. Until the last two weeks that is. Suddenly the right knee has an interesting pattern radiating out over the inside leg, the result of an innocuous jarring sensation early into a game a couple of weeks ago. The following week the knee appeared to have passed inspection without any noticeable issues, but in the final burst along the sports hall the left calf gave out. The next morning, all the colours of the rainbow were present, if not in the correct order; and the calf itself was very tender.
So on Friday I did the unimaginable. I declared myself unfit to play. I really don’t like missing out, as besides a bit of walking and scrambling about on cliffsides to bring you pictures I’m not doing much else to keep myself in shape these days. Sometimes it seems more sensible to allow oneself to properly recover rather than risk a longer absence from the action. It’s just that I’m not always entirely sensible. My son often likes to remind me about the time many years ago when I played while in the final stages of recovery from an e-Coli infection. I got the man of the match award that evening too. I enjoy a bit of adversity now and again you know.
It didn’t take long for a replacement to be found. Young Michael’s friend was down for the week; he’d ask him. “Any good?” came the response from the group. “Jimmy spent six seasons at Burton Albion if that helps,” was the reply. For a while the Whatsapp group went silent as everyone digested the fact that our game would be graced by a former full time professional player as a replacement for a broken down old has-been with a dodgy knee and a tight calf. Unsurprisingly I heard later that Jimmy was rather good. Whether I’ll be allowed back into the circle of trust after my convalescence remains to be seen.
My own football career highlight is rather more modest. While Jimmy will one day tell his grandchildren about the day his team played Manchester United in the FA Cup or about when they won promotion to the Football League, I will reflect on the proud occasion when I bumped into the England goalkeeper at Cullompton Services and managed to hold a brief conversation with him without giggling like a star struck teenager. “Isn’t he tall?” cooed the two service station attendants, both of them old enough to be his mother as they gazed up at the chiseled jaw over a foot above their heads. “Who is he again?” He even gave me a wave from his car as he drove off, while I tried to explain to my colleague who I’d just met. Even Ali knows who he is, following his appearance on Strictly Come Dancing a couple of years ago. Paired with the almost impossibly lovely Nadiya, he wasn’t too terrible either. At least it didn’t look like she was attempting to manoeuvre a wardrobe around the floor.
The absence from the usual Friday night exertions meant that I could do something else of course, and it had been a while since I’d visited the other hallowed ground in my life. The one where I could scramble around on cliff sides. An appointment with the sea thrift was already overdue, and the light was looking promising as I finally made the decision to put the book I’d almost finished to one side and climb into the car and go. There was a stiff breeze over Godrevy, but the evening sun was catching the myriad of seasonal pink blooms as I cursed myself for not having brought the wide angle lens with me. The photo itself isn’t one I think of as a favourite, but I had to present something in the telling of this tale and it has a certain glow, much like my bruises do. A few botched attempts, a cunning hack and a strategically placed hand where it wasn’t supposed to be in order to screen out the lens flare helped deliver a result, albeit in instalments that came together in the final blend. A bit like football really. A lot of energetic frustration interspersed with the odd moment of unadulterated joy. At least my legs are safe from collisions with fast flying objects when I’m sitting up here watching the world.
Friday Evening with Football Injuries
It’s not a pretty way to commence today’s episode, but I need to start by reporting the fact that for most of my adult life, my legs have been decorated with an ever changing array of bruises. Sometimes they appear in unappealing clusters, now and again the odd angry red welt, and more occasionally than I’d like, I find myself sporting a pancake sized monstrosity that fortunately remains mostly hidden from small children and others of a sensitive humour. It’s really not an engaging sight, but it’s a regular affliction, about which little can be done. “What’s up with him?” you’re no doubt wondering. “Is he unwell? Does he suffer from some as yet unexplained affliction for which a cure is yet to be discovered? Will he make it to Iceland in September as planned?”
The answer to all of the questions you’ve been asking yourself thus far is that his legs would soon return to their intended state if he did what most people of his age had done and stopped playing five a side football twice a week. I can’t help it. It’s just something I’ve always done because I love it, and I’m not yet ready to hang up my trainers, even though the pool of regulars has undergone a seismic demographic shift since we returned from lockdown twelve months ago. When the arrival of the pandemic put everything on hold, most of us were over fifty. Within three months of the resumption of hostilities, a sudden raft of old age retirements saw an influx of youthful types, fitter and faster than those they’d replaced. In the meantime, the stamina levels that enabled me to run non-stop for an hour and still feel fresh, helped by two completed marathons and several halves in the months before lockdown had been replaced by a lethargic indolence that saw my running career all but finish completely. I was never that keen on running unless I was scampering after a ball to be honest.
But why the bruises? Well I never said I was the most skilful of footballers. Try anything too elaborate and I usually end up lying in a heap on the sports hall floor. What I could do though was run about making a nuisance of myself and getting in the way of the more gifted players, blocking their efforts with whatever part of my body I could place between the goal and the ball in a hurry. While others totted up their goals, I counted the purple and yellow patches on my shins and thighs as if they were badges of honour. At least they were complementary opposites on the colour wheel.
But those days seem like a thing of the past now. And with the loss of fitness, the bruises I used to collect began to dwindle too. Until the last two weeks that is. Suddenly the right knee has an interesting pattern radiating out over the inside leg, the result of an innocuous jarring sensation early into a game a couple of weeks ago. The following week the knee appeared to have passed inspection without any noticeable issues, but in the final burst along the sports hall the left calf gave out. The next morning, all the colours of the rainbow were present, if not in the correct order; and the calf itself was very tender.
So on Friday I did the unimaginable. I declared myself unfit to play. I really don’t like missing out, as besides a bit of walking and scrambling about on cliffsides to bring you pictures I’m not doing much else to keep myself in shape these days. Sometimes it seems more sensible to allow oneself to properly recover rather than risk a longer absence from the action. It’s just that I’m not always entirely sensible. My son often likes to remind me about the time many years ago when I played while in the final stages of recovery from an e-Coli infection. I got the man of the match award that evening too. I enjoy a bit of adversity now and again you know.
It didn’t take long for a replacement to be found. Young Michael’s friend was down for the week; he’d ask him. “Any good?” came the response from the group. “Jimmy spent six seasons at Burton Albion if that helps,” was the reply. For a while the Whatsapp group went silent as everyone digested the fact that our game would be graced by a former full time professional player as a replacement for a broken down old has-been with a dodgy knee and a tight calf. Unsurprisingly I heard later that Jimmy was rather good. Whether I’ll be allowed back into the circle of trust after my convalescence remains to be seen.
My own football career highlight is rather more modest. While Jimmy will one day tell his grandchildren about the day his team played Manchester United in the FA Cup or about when they won promotion to the Football League, I will reflect on the proud occasion when I bumped into the England goalkeeper at Cullompton Services and managed to hold a brief conversation with him without giggling like a star struck teenager. “Isn’t he tall?” cooed the two service station attendants, both of them old enough to be his mother as they gazed up at the chiseled jaw over a foot above their heads. “Who is he again?” He even gave me a wave from his car as he drove off, while I tried to explain to my colleague who I’d just met. Even Ali knows who he is, following his appearance on Strictly Come Dancing a couple of years ago. Paired with the almost impossibly lovely Nadiya, he wasn’t too terrible either. At least it didn’t look like she was attempting to manoeuvre a wardrobe around the floor.
The absence from the usual Friday night exertions meant that I could do something else of course, and it had been a while since I’d visited the other hallowed ground in my life. The one where I could scramble around on cliff sides. An appointment with the sea thrift was already overdue, and the light was looking promising as I finally made the decision to put the book I’d almost finished to one side and climb into the car and go. There was a stiff breeze over Godrevy, but the evening sun was catching the myriad of seasonal pink blooms as I cursed myself for not having brought the wide angle lens with me. The photo itself isn’t one I think of as a favourite, but I had to present something in the telling of this tale and it has a certain glow, much like my bruises do. A few botched attempts, a cunning hack and a strategically placed hand where it wasn’t supposed to be in order to screen out the lens flare helped deliver a result, albeit in instalments that came together in the final blend. A bit like football really. A lot of energetic frustration interspersed with the odd moment of unadulterated joy. At least my legs are safe from collisions with fast flying objects when I’m sitting up here watching the world.