Get rid of it!

It’s the smell that gets me, the deep heat, unwashed socks, and the stale stench of alcohol. This is my dressing room. A nod here and a wink there. Elbows digging into sides as last nights events are cruelly recounted. The young-fella’s furiously digging into their gear looking for that other shin pad. The scroungers sheepishly hidden in the corner avoiding the ref’s fee. Boots slam off the floor leaving clunks of mud from the week previous. Debates raging, penalty or not? “He’s a f***ing diver and that’s it!”

Thunder footsteps tapping the sorry excuse for a room. “Honestly the f***ing car has more leg space” Meet Trevor, full-back occasional centre-half and warmly referred to as a hatchet man. The old adage of a player’s second touch being a tackle must have been coined about Trev. He shows up though. At the hole in the wall or the door if we are being technical is Brian the keeper more commonly known as “Ballsy” for reasons unknown. He is the model professional. He sticks to a strict diet of ten pints of Heineken the night before allayed to a vein popping breakfast roll an hour ahead of kick off and he smokes. He smokes going up in the car, he smokes before the game and he will doubtlessly smoke at half-time.

Puffing away with him is Mick “the bull” Hart. He is unquestionably the worst footballer in the history of the game. A man so hopelessly inept at even the simple things that it is a cause for celebration whenever he successfully completes a throw-in. He will run all day long however and is brave to boot. Invaluable qualities in the jungle of the Sunday leagues. Playing alongside me at centre-half today will be Connor. “Roundy” would be a succinct summary of his physique. His positioning is his strong point the forever tells us. One memorable match last season Connor and Bull were partners at the back, having cleared a corner and roared “Get Out!” to all and sundry Connor and Bull calmly raised their hands indicating offside as the ball was swung back in. Vidic and Ferdinand they are not. The two were astonished as the ball floated over their heads and onto the onrushing striker who coolly dispatched it into the net. They were standing on the six-yard line.

The creative force in the team is Figs. No idea again with the nickname I just always assumed it was something to do with the biscuits. He can pick a pass but has the movement of a walrus and the motivation to match. The lungs of the team are Jimmy. He is the lungs because frankly he can run without the assistance of an oxygen tank for more than five minutes. On the right hand side is Curtin, so named because well that’s his surname and his first name is Jimmy but since Lungs was here first the surname was used. He is the youngest and he can actually play, in fact the only real discernible tactics we employ is getting the ball to Curtin. Failing that get the ball to Figs and hope he can stay upright long enough to get the ball to Curtin. On the left is Connell. The reason he is on the left? He is left footed. A priceless commodity to have. Our deadly strike-force consists of Denis or “Ginola” so named for his lethal step overs and his worth- it hair. His partner is “Kelso” with a devastating ratio of three goals in over forty games he provides the ammo for our assault on the title.

Me well I’m Paul or Ring but usually referred to as “Ringer”. The imaginative streak in the side extends to the clever nicknames. I’m sitting chatting to Trev explaining the basics of ball control when in strides the gaffer. Liam Foley founded our football club and through hours of painstaking lobbying and cajoling built us a wonderful pitch complete with dressing room with plenty of leg-room. He moves to the middle of the floor and names the team. Quite why he felt he needed to do that seeing as there is only eleven of us here is his business.

He stresses that he wants to see football being played. Ball on the ground, plenty of movement and I am heartened by this. We usually lose anyway so why not go down playing the way the game should be played? We trot out onto the pitch and my studs immediately squelch into a pile of cow shit, just above that is more shit until I make out the faint sliver of a white line marking the pitch. We line out immaculate in our four-four-two formation. I always grin at this point knowing it’s the only time we will all stay in our positions except for Figs of course. Our esteemed opponents strip off their smart tracksuits and kick off. Both sides labour around the field like cows searching for any spot of grass. The ball rolls to Figs who is standing on the half way line. He looks up and plays a casual pass out to Curtin who is quickly closed down. Curtin, under pressure plays the ball towards his goal along the sideline to me where I have made myself available; I calmly take a touch and look around to pick a pass. I have all the time in the world to assess my options when a storm of spit and yell flash into my ears from my immediate right. “For f**** sake! GET RID OF IT!” it’s the gaffer and football has been abandoned.