I’d hung my boots up at 33. Decided that football was a young man’s game and that running was the future. Theoretically I should be at my running prime in my mid-thirties whereas the fate of a 30-something footballer tends to lie amongst an array of orthopaedic supports and shouts of “mark the old fellow” from opponents who weren’t even born when you started your glorious career in the Bloxwich Combination League or wherever.
Anyway, it all began with a phone call a couple of weeks ago from the turbid world of Spanish Sunday league football (except that the games are usually played on a Saturday). It was Mingoya junior, an ex-teammate from a highly successful pub side I’d played with a few years ago. He has formed a new team with his dad and they are at present languishing two places from the bottom of the flat end of the Spanish league pyramid. Relegation is impossible as there is nowhere left to go. In fact Mingoya senior was a decent semi-pro in his youth and still retains a nice touch. Mingoya junior must be getting on 30 these days. Oh, and they’re short of players.
Mentioned to Rosana that I intended to join the father-son combo and kick-start my playing career again. Once she had recovered from 5 minutes hysterical laughter she questioned the wisdom of my decision. Well, she didn’t actually say “I question the wisdom of your decision” but it was along those lines. As she correctly pointed out my unfulfilled dream had always been to play up front with Cyrille Regis and I clearly wanted to live out my childhood fantasies. Shouldn’t parenthood have matured me? The ageing Mingoya senior was merely a substitute for big Cyrille and I would inevitably make a fool of myself or get injured. I tried to explain that Albion’s present day centre forward is Kevin Campbell who is as old as me. So is Alan Shearer. And then there’s an authentic English institution called Teddy Sheringham who is possibly older than the legendary Mingoya senior himself (although like Ethiopian steeplechasers the true age of these people will always remain one of life’s great mysteries). Rosana laughed again and asked how a grown man could possibly be named after a cuddly toy
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So, I signed on for my new team and found myself in the dug-out for Saturday’s home game. Except there is no dug-out, but rather a soft bed of grass where I took advantage of the pleasantly warm rays of afternoon sunshine and tried to get a first half suntan. Almost immediately I recognized what I missed about football and why running in contrast is such a hard, solitary pastime (and perhaps why I felt inclined to write about the latter and not the former). Be it the Bierzo “friends of football” league or “the Devon and Exeter”, there’s the same banter, the same characters, the same ridiculous situations and the same innate immaturity of men getting out of the house for a couple of hours to act like boys. Running gives plenty of time for the mind to wander, for reflection or introspection even. In football there’s never a dull moment. Love it!
I was one of two subs. A third turned up just before half time complaining of a fairly heavy family lunch. My team wore yellow shirts with the name of our metal factory sponsors “Aluminium Dos” emblazoned across the front in bold letters. And we’re quite an international bunch as it turns out with two Brits, a Frenchman and a couple of Cape Verdeans in the ranks. But don’t be fooled by appearances. We’re still crap.
My moment of glory came in the second half when I came on as sub, ran around like a headless chicken for half an hour and got one of their centre halves booked but little else. We lost 5-2.
Still managed to get out for a Sunday morning run. Ran past the village pitch of Toral de Merayo where I’m due to play with the aluminium boys later on this season. Glorious sunshine. Cold. Icy in the shade. One solitary heron flapped its wings and took flight across the river. I feel that this particular training diary is coming to an end….
Running time 44 minutes.
Frolicking back to February....
