Get me my medication, there's a dear

You should cut down on your pork-life, mate...

...get some exercise.

I had a great time running (well, walking) around playing five-a-side. The problem was, is, time. About thirty years of it. As BLISS pointed out when I got back (twenty minute drive, twenty minutes getting out of the car, twenty minutes getting to the door and up the front steps):

“They're all less than half your age...”

Thanks.

“In fact, you're more than double their age...”

No, really, thanks.

“There's people over thirty years old who have...”

Enough, already.

My body was making me fully aware of the age difference. By hurting. A lot. If not all of it, then somewhere between 95% and all of it. The price, I suppose, of not playing indoor cricket this winter (apart from the last two games when player shortages were acute) and not having any pre-season nets (sportshall, roof leak, damage to the floor, insurers moving slowly).

I was, actually and sadly, a bit nervous, not having kicked a ball, apart from retrieving it for a throw-in when watching (and then only when the clock was ticking and we needed it back in play quickly). I got a bit of grief one season watching MM's lot play. We were holding out for the win, one goal ahead, the ball went out for a throw, and, like any sensible bloke would, I ignored it. Up to them to get the ball, they're the ones in a rush.

“Thanks mate” their player said (the collective noun for a footballer losing by the odd goal with the clock ticking down is a 'disgruntle') “very christian”.

“Don't mention it” I said, “I don't believe in all that. I like winning.”

Yeah, I was nervous. The last time I'd played with these guys, they were big and strong, some of them very big and strong, but I was a lot younger, still (just about) playing myself, and they were fifteen and sixteen years old. Would I get a touch of the ball at all? Would something give out? Go terminally ping leaving me with an embarrassing trip to A&E? Would I have to nip off to chuck up?

It goes through the mind, all that stuff.

Anyway, without a doubt, they took it easy on me, although I'd never admit that (ooops), and I lived, not only to tell the tale, but to bore anyone willing to listen senseless with it. I did concentrate my efforts on providing a forward outlet to our more defensive (and more mobile players) by staying advanced, and central (sometimes known as “goal-hanging” to the less tactically aware). Despite not doing too much, movement-wise, I was dripping by the end of the hour.

When they decided to go for a beer instead of a curry afterwards, I called it a day. There's only so much style-cramping the poor guys can stand, after all, and I needed to get home. To a super-hot shower, painkillers and cotton-wool wrapping.

The best thing is that there's still quite a few of them that have maintained their enthusiasm for the game and are still regularly playing it. That makes me happy.