Those that know me, understand my relationship with ‘the beautiful game’. It’s not that I have never played it – far from it, I used to love kicking the old pigskin around the garden, at lunchtime on the school field or even during sports lesson at school. It was fun. I had no aspirations to be the next *insert appropriate name here*, I played just for fun. Then as I grew older, my head and feet rebelled against the stress that I felt was watching, playing or discussing football. I had no interest in the fantasy teams, couldn’t care less about who was wearing what boots and so my attention fell away from the shouty spectator spherical-worshiping sport with no regrets whatsoever. It was easy. For me ‘fun’ had been taken off due to injury and substituted with ‘Mr Serious’. With that, the game and I parted ways. I do my thing and it does it’s thing. Ironically I have developed a magnetic attraction to loose footballs. They seem to escape across busy parks, noisy playgrounds and echoing housing estates, only to find the feet that said goodbye. Putting me in the horrifying position that those of my tribe hate – the return kick. Sweaty palms indeed.
But look, wait whats that beneath my reminiscent and therapeutic ramblings? It’s a bunch of photos taken at a football match! Does this mean I’ve beaten my demons into the back of a goal mouth? Is the little puffing asthmatic child back on the pitch once again? Have the damp coals of my sporting past been reignited into a burning tower footy-love!
But take at look at the images, it won’t take 90 minutes.