Mismatch

The Mismatch

I shaved this morning. Okay, millions of men do this every day, so
what's so remarkable? Well I hardly ever shave on Saturdays. Firstly
it's a juvenile little rebellion for me. Saturday is a day off, I'm not
at work, I don't need to conform and I don't need the appearance of the
pillar of the establishment that I don on working days. I also like to
appear as rough and as unfriendly as I can when I'm playing football in
a pathetic attempt to win a few early psychological points against my
opponent. Sad and feeble it may be, I wont try to defend it, but
nevertheless not shaving on Saturday has been a habit of my
post-puberty lifetime. But in recent times I noticed that my stubble
was becoming liberally sprinkled with grey. If I looked like an old man
I'd lose the psychological edge rather than gaining it. So there you
are, today I shaved.

I started packing my stuff together. I smiled to myself as I remembered
how the younger lads in our squad had now named me the neoprene man.
And I had to recognise some truth in this. I reckoned that starting
from junior school days, I was now playing my 29th consecutive
competitive season. Until the last three or four I'd shake off knocks
and little injuries and had never missed a matched. Now I suffered from
constant pulls, twists and strains and it often took a couple of weeks
before they'd stop giving me gyp. So gradually I acquired supports for
both ankles, strapping for one knee and knee-length lycra cyclists'
shorts to protect my hamstrings. Quite a collection. A physiotherapist
friend swore by aides like these. He was convinced of their
psychosomatic efficacy. I didn't care if this was the case, they seemed
to work for me, or at least I felt more confident if I was using them.
I've got to confess though that occasionally I'd forget to pack these
essential medical props and suffered absolutely no detrimental
after-effects.

I called out my good-byes to an empty house. The days when wifey or the
kids would come to watch me were long gone. Usually I'd be pleased
really that they were all off doing their own thing but I felt a little
upset that no-one was even around to wish me luck as it was a special
game today. After those 29 seasons I had nothing by way of trophies,
medals, championships, not even a crumby certificate to show for my
effort. But today we were playing in a county cup semi-final. The final
was played at the local second division professional club's ground,
probably in front of over a hundred spectators. For millions of casual
amateurs like myself, that constituted the big time.

I chucked my bag into the back of my car. I was in a funny mood today
as again I found myself wistfully thinking about how my life had
changed. This had to be the smallest car I'd owned apart from my very
first one. I'd risen to a senior level in industry and had had the cars
that went with it, but now I had a boss who was younger than me, I'd
rationalise that I'd opted for a car allowance instead of a car and
that all I needed these days was a little run around, nothing flash, so
I might as well pocket the extra money. I wasn't a material person but
a part of me was rueful about what must look to others like a
significant come-down.

As I chugged along, I shook myself out of my stupor and started to feel
the excitement I'd still always get before any match. Even more so
today as I had something to prove. Several weeks ago a new young lad
joined our squad. I don't know who brought him in. Great footballer but
too lippy to be likeable. In fact he was currently unattached because
of disciplinary problems at his last club. He was a natural midfielder
but the problem was our midfield had really gelled and was undoubtedly
the reason for our unexpected success this season. The new lad had made
a couple of appearances as a substituted and played a couple of
complete games upfront when one of our regular starters was
unavailable. But I knew my place in defence was the one that was under
threat in the long term. I'd really worked hard to hold on to it for
the semi-final. I'd put in every ounce of effort at training and done
plenty of extra gym work and cross countries on my own. Even so, it was
probably going to be touch and go whether I made the starting line up.
However, one of our midfield stars had gone down with flu, so late on
Thursday night, a couple of hours after I knew the team is usually
announced, I got a call to tell me I was in. I was thrilled by my late
reprieve and certain that I'd never let anyone down, not on a football
pitch any way. And it was going to be a real tough match, the sort I
thrived on. Our opponents played two divisions above us in the league,
so we were very much underdogs.

With ten minutes to go we were some how one up in a poor game. I was
just about holding my own. I had tried nothing fancy and finally
accepted that the time had come when I have to be careful about
supporting the attack. Charging upfield was not the problem, but these
days I either struggled to get back or else took too long to recover
when I did make my ground. The lad playing in front of me in midfield
was clearly frustrated by my reluctance to move forward. I had a torrid
start to the second half as our opponents brought on Linford Christie's
brother down my flank. He was built like a tank and had lightning
speed. He skipped passed me twice in the first few minutes with
consummate ease but such was his pace that it was difficult for him to
keep control of the ball and both times the moves broke down harmlessly
even though I was floundering some distance away. After that I had to
resort to experience and a few sly fouls to just about survive. I'm
sure I'd have got the hook but an injury meant we were forced into a
different substitution which really left us with few alternatives for
defence. Never mind. Not my greatest game ever but not only were we
still in the game but we were almost home.

I think my mind was drifting a bit when I realised that they were
attacking down the opposite flank to me. Somehow I was the only cover.
There was no way I could get across to block their striker but
fortunately our keeper was coming out to close the angle down. I ran
from the opposite diagonal to cover behind the keeper. The striker had
powered in his shot early such that our keeper got a hand to it but the
ball continued with some pace towards the goal. "Great", I thought to
myself, although I had a few yards to make up I'd chosen the right
angle and was confident that I'd get to the ball before it crossed the
line and become a hero, surely this would secure my place in the team
for the final. But after a couple more paces I realised it was going to
be closer than I thought. I dug in with an extra lung bursting spurt
and lunged forward. I knew at once that the ball had fractionally
crossed the line before I hooked it away but hoped that the ref would
give me the benefit of the doubt. Not a bit off it, he was blowing his
whistle and pointing to the centre spot. I protested as convincingly as
I could.

"Better luck next time pops." was the only response I got.

"Unlucky Em", muttered one team mate as I took up my position for the
re-start. But the rest of my colleagues studiously avoided eye contact.
I felt ashamed. I was replaying the incident in my mind and couldn't
understand how I hadn't cut the ball off. Okay, may be I'm losing a
yard or two but I'd have backed myself massively to have made it. Well
may be it would have been a certainty last season, well definitely the
year before. I think my speed was still there but it did seem to take
me one or two crucial strides to get going.

I shook myself out of my reverie just in time to see a long hopeful
punt heading my way. Because I hadn't been concentrating, I now was out
of position and hesitated as to whether I should go forward and head
the ball away or leave it to bounce and then control it. In then end I
got caught in two minds and went half forward and tried to trap the
ball just as it bounced. It looked ugly and the dreaded sphere skewed
under my foot and started to run behind me. But I was fully alert now
and knew at once that Linford would pounce. So I spun round 180
degrees, flailing out my leg as I did so. The tactic worked, I just
made sufficient contact to toe the ball away but then made contact with
Linford's shin and, because of the speed he was going at, he tumbled
dramatically. What! The ref had given a foul.

"Christ, I got the ball first!" I muttered as I took up my position in
the box for the free kick. Damn, now the ref was calling me over. He
obviously had a small penis. This was a well known FACT among
footballers. The confident refs would come over to you and have a quiet
word. The ones who wanted to prove something always called you over to
them so that you suffered a petty public ignominy.

"Look pops, you're lucky not to get the yellow card - if it wasn't so
late in the game you'd be getting one. Now get on with it."

I was fuming and it didn't improve my temper when I realised he'd let
them take the kick before I'd properly made up my ground and now the
ball was sailing over to the far post, where a lanky defender, coming
up from the back, soared to meet the ball crushingly with the centre of
his neanderthal forehead. Shit!

We threw everything forward for the last couple of minutes - even I
joined the assault, but it wasn't to be. As the final whistle blew all
I wanted to do was get straight into my car and drive away. But I had
just a little more pride than that. These days the lads would go their
separate ways after a match and then meet up in the evening for a post
mortem. When I started playing senior football it was virtually
obligatory that after leaning up you'd all go for a few pints straight
afterwards. It was one tradition that until today I really missed. So
steeling myself for the worst, I trooped back to the dressing for a
quick shower and a speedy exit. I had to face the music but had no
intention of hanging around to prolong the agony, any way they'd want
to slag me off so the sooner I was away the better all round. I got one
slap on the back and a quiet "Bad luck Em." I heard a couple of
semi-vicious criticisms but mainly the atmosphere was subdued and I got
off lightly.

"Cheers lads. Sorry yeah." A couple of sympathetic grunts in
acknowledgement, and that was it.

I slung my bag into the car, crunched the gears as I took off at speed.
I knew I'd never kick a ball again in anger or even half-anger. I drove
about a mile, pulled off a dual carriage way alongside some run-down
allotments, switched the engine off because I'd realised that tears
were streaming down my face and my whole body was racked with painful
sobs.

Martyn Jansen ? 2001.