Boys of Summer

"Back in the summer of '69" I was only a few months old, but in the summer of 2002 I was a strapping lad of 33.

My football career never really took off, not for the lack of offers, it's just that I never fancied giving up the social aspect of following Forest on a Saturday afternoon and my lie-in on a Sunday morning. So works 5-a-side football was my limit.

In the summer of '69, sorry, 2002, our work had an 11 a side summer league and the annual 5-a-side tournament. Our department had a number of good players, and we fancied our chances in both. The full size league was won early on, with an impressive 8-0 victory in our opening game in which, as the goalkeeper, I didn't touch the ball once in open play. I did 'touch' their centre forward though, sufficiently for him to miss the rest of the tournament. Whoops.

The 5-a-side tournament was more competitive. We played 10 games in total, and we only conceded 4 goals, 2 of which were penalties. However, we got truly hammered in the semi-final, the opposition's free-flowing football blitzing our tiring defence. It's fair to say I had my best game of the day, keeping out everything. We scored late on to steal it 1-0. The opposition weren't happy, but graciously accepted defeat. The team we beat in the final had a man sent off early doors and were duly dispatched 3-1. They weren't happy either and didn't accept defeat graciously at all, demanding a rematch, despite the fact that not only had we beat them in the final, but also in the first game of the group stages. They didn't like the fact that, while they all had the same kit, we had turned up in a motley collection of white, cream & yellow.

This is still my one and only football medal. It won't be seen any time soon at Sotheby's, but it means something to me.

In October 2002, we were moving to Scotland, so this seemed like the ideal time to announce my retirement, go out on a high. I didn't watch Sky Sports News that day, so can only assume it was their top story. Sven must have been gutted.

Fast forward to last night, 2007. My kit safely recovered from the loft and a Rocky Balboa-esque return to top flight works 5-a-side action.

10 minutes in, my right leg wants to go one way, while my body is twisting and falling the other. All my weight goes down onto my twisting right ankle & knee before pain takes over. Ouch.

This morning I can't walk, my right ankle has swollen to the size of Jade Goody's mouth, while my ability to walk has reduced to the size of Jade Goody's brain. Both my knees seem to be trying to escape my body in fear and my left hand refuses to straighten past a fairly useless 90 degrees.

In short, I'm getting too old for all this.