To say I was and still am not that good at football would be a lie. I am absolutely terrible. When it comes to any sport I make Eric Pickles look like Mo Farrah. Still, this didn’t stop me trying when I was younger. Alongside my brother I went and trained for the local football team, Flockton Falcons.
Obviously, this required some boots. Seeing as my dad wasn’t into football himself and he had the foresight to see that my spell as a right-back wouldn’t last, a trip to my cousins was in order. My cousin could play, he did play and therefore he had a pair of old boots I could have.
If I remember rightly, my first boots were the Adidas Predator in black, red and white. They felt ace, like I was Jonathan Woodgate (if Jonathan Woodgate wore his boots a size too big.) Anyway, I turned up to training in these boots and played as I normally did. Ran around a bit. Kicked the ball a bit. Got tackled by almost everyone. Then went home and had my tea.
My illustrious career lasted a whole three training sessions. I soon hung up my boots, or shoved them in the back of my wardrobe. This was around the same time I got a Playstation for Christmas. I’m not gonna lie, playing Crash Bandicoot was always gonna be better than taking abuse from some lard-arse coach with a forty-a-day habit who had never kicked a ball in his life. Who needs exercise anyway?