you’ve got to hold and give…

For quite some time now, I’ve been playing football on a Saturday afternoon for a team called AFC Kingston. Although their home ground and the majority of their games are played a considerable distance from my house, I’ve been a staunch member of the team for the past five and a half seasons. As daft as it may seem, I love pulling on that shirt.

My association with them started when my previous team, the mighty Griggor Athletic, folded due to a lack of interest and any viable football skills. GAFC’s squad (and I use that term very loosely; often we could barely rustle up eleven players) was composed mainly of old school friends, but one guy who had joined our ranks was keen to continue playing and joined AFCK, “tapping me up” and taking me with him. And so began my journey into the world of very amateur football.

I’ve always had an interesting relationship with playing football; I’m much more into it than I am good at it. I’ve got a fair turn of pace, so that’s often stood me in good stead and destined me to ply my trade up front as a striker (point to note that I was actually AFCK’s top scorer in my first season, before the second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth-season slump set in). As time’s gone on, the old legs have started to give out a bit, and the pace isn’t quite as blistering, so I’ve found myself shipped out to the left wing, a positional switch I’ve taken to calling “The Reverse Thierry Henry”. I even wear his shirt number of 14 when I’m playing.

For as long as they’ve been in existence, AFCK have languished in the lowest division of the Kingston & District Football League, with season after season of occasional bursts of promise before settling for mid-table mediocrity. This current season has been a difficult one for me, with new (and younger) recruits relegating me to sporadic substitute appearances. An injury to another left winger has given me a chance to cement my place in the starting XI, and cement it I have. Dutch maestro Dirk Kuyt is renowned for his high workrate, and I like to think I’ve squeezed myself into the same niche with almost endless running, chasing lost causes and clattering at least one member of the opposition in every game. Despite this, the goals simply haven’t been coming, and it’s been something of an issue. Week in, week out, I’d be getting into positions, missing chances and being placated by my teammates: “You’ve got to be there to miss ‘em, mate”. It’s a platitude as empty as “Just be yourself”; as a pointless default response it can be applied to anybody who needs advice in their hour of need, but you don’t know or care what they should actually do.

The breakthrough finally came last week in a Cup game. We’d gone 1-0 down from an own goal, and the end of the first half was looming. A cross had been unconvincingly cleared, and was dropping straight back down into the area, where I was jostling with a defender. The weakest part of my game has always been heading the ball, as I simply don’t have the confidence to do it (and I don’t want to harm my beautiful face), and the way it was dropping, a header was the only option. I jumped, made just enough contact and sent it looping over the ‘keeper and into the net. Now, I’m the type of idiot who practices his goal celebrations in advance. You know, just in case. In this instance, I didn’t do a thing, just walked back to the halfway line while my teammates congratulated me. In the grand scheme of things, this goal (and this game) didn’t mean a thing to anyone else, but to finally notch my first of the season after trying and failing in spectacular fashion for so long was a total relief. When the half-time whistle blew a few minutes later, I actually nearly cried, which in itself is fucking ridiculous. Anyway, I’ve broken my duck now, and hopefully I can bang a few more in.

In terms of my love for the professional game, I’m already over Fernando Torres leaving my beloved Liverpool for a vastly-inflated sum to join Chelsea, which was made even easier when we beat them in their own back yard, with Torres rendered largely anonymous. Back when there rumours flying around Anfield of other players having their heads turned by other clubs, Jamie Carragher was quoted as saying something along the lines “All were considered irreplaceable. All were replaced”. I’m pretty sure that Carra isn’t that erudite, but you get the gist. No-one’s bigger than the club, particularly a club as big as Liverpool. Oh, and by the way, after my equaliser, AFCK went on to win 4-1.

 

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