Every week during the football season I pen a column for our local newspaper, the Petersfield Post, on the travails of a parent watching youth football. In an ideal world it's a light-hearted piece - though I have been known to occasionally throw my toys out of the pram.
Now I have a blog, I will post the column here every week for your delectation . . . but seven days later than it appears in the newspaper. After all I wouldn't want to damage its sales figures . . .
Here's the first of the new season:
If you’ve been enduring this column for the last five years you’ll be interested to learn I have a ‘new’ role.
If, however, you’re a newcomer, welcome and I’ll gloss over my relegation last season.
That was as temporary manager of the under-14 B team. Having been impressed with the way I got the boys relegated for the first time, Kev (AKA Kelvin), the A team manager, has recruited me as one of his assistants for the new campaign.
Physio Andy (AKA Nurse Gladys) is also working with the ‘minis’ so Kev now has three assistants for both his Saturday and Sunday teams – and I wear number three on the basis he doesn’t have a number four.
Both seasons started last weekend and we were delighted to record victories in both leagues. But it was on the journey home from Saturday’s game when I was reminded of how the game has changed.
My stepson Ben and I were in discussion about the merits of some of the opposition players. “Was he the one with the red adiPure TRX?” asked Ben. “Or the one with the orange Total 90s?”
“He was the number 13,” I said, bemused. “I haven’t a clue what boots he was wearing…”
And I only knew he was talking boots because he has a habit of leaving pages of catalogues scattered throughout the house.
That 10-second conversation encapsulated what’s wrong with football these days. It’s all about gloss. In my day the only difference between the boots we wore were the sizes. Now, a player’s ability is judged by his contemporaries on his choice of footwear.
If you were to turn up wearing a pair of plain, black boots with no brand name emblazoned on them you would be regarded as a no-hoper.
I blame Alan Ball…
What utter twaddle! I distinctly remember badgering my parents for weeks for a pair of Adidas Santiagos - as worn by most of Chelsea's FA Cup-winning side - and when they eventually coughed up having to have a pair two sizes too big because they only started at size six. They were pure class and surely made me stand out from the crowd who were all wearing Frisby toe-punters, and that was in 1970!
ReplyDeleteOne thing that hasn't changed is that the boots couldn't turn a crap player into a potential Ian Hutchinson even back then...
It wasn't new boots you needed, it was somebody else's feet! :o)
ReplyDelete