29 years, 5 months and 16 days ago I played my first game of football. I was on the right wing for Nomads United AFC and we lost. Here is a photo of a photo of me before we lost.
Today people pay $1.99 for apps to make their photos look all retro like this, but all I had to do was take a photo of an old photo with my old old iPhone and it came out all blurry and bigfootish for free.
As you can see the only difference between my 8 year old and 37 year old legs is the complete absence of colour. It's as if my lazy 8 year old heart decided it couldn't be arsed pumping bloody blood to my legs, leaving them to translucently wither like two sad saplings on the White Tree of Gondor. As all my manly male friends filled out their hamstrings and quadriceps with ease my upper legs stubbornly refused to thicken up and remained milky, thin and insipid. I even started squatting at the local YMCA in a vain attempt to bring on the beef, but soon stopped when I found myself at the bottom of a squat unable to rise and had to ask the female trainer to lift the bar off my shoulders. No fat hammies were worth that kind of embarrassment.
I can't remember much about my football days. I was placed in the 10Fs and from memory that was the team where all the uncoordinated athletically inept boys with pencil legs were placed to make sure we couldn't spoil any other teams with our bad apple ball skills. We were absolute shit. We lost every single game except one when the other team didn't turn up. Our coach's pigeon toed son was in goal and he never tied his laces and fell over often. I was the only one who bothered to obey our coach's instructions by staying in position, meaning I spent 90 minutes every Saturday morning freezing my tits off running up and down the right side of the field as 19 other boys flew around like an angry solar system orbiting a ball I never saw. Even the opposition goalie would join the melee once they realised there wasn't a chance in hell we were ever going to launch a shot at goal. Our valiant coach ran up and down the sideline screaming 'Don't bunch!' as I ran up and down the sideline wishing I was in my nice warm bed thumbing through The Sword of Shannara.
I was terrified of the ball so my weekly 90 minute shuttle runs were a minor blessing. Possessing the ball meant you were ripe to be kicked in the shins by all of the opposing team trying to get the ball off you and most of your own team trying to get the ball off you. I did not consider that to be fun and on the rare occasion when somebody passed to me I immediately kicked it back to them and ran in the opposite direction. During one memorable game our goalie decided he wanted to join the thrashing throng and after some hasty negotiation I agreed to swap positions with him. He pulled his jersey half over his head and immediately tripped over his laces. I got mine halfway over my head and tripped over him. As we both lay blinded in the box like thrashing red, white and blue worms in the sun the other team scored and an unknown assailant kicked me in the shin....probably our coach.
As I gaze at that blurry snapshot of my life on a sunny Saturday morning in April 1982 I am filled with questions, all of which start with 'What the fuck....? My brother was rather good at football so had I convinced myself genes would get me through even though his legs were wide and colourful? Was I foolishly inspired by the All Whites qualifying for the 1982 World Cup? Maybe I was drunk?
Anyway, if you want to see my 8 year old legs running around a park you'd better be quick. Here's the schedule and once we're done my legs will return to long pants and Australia with no hamstrings attached.
Today people pay $1.99 for apps to make their photos look all retro like this, but all I had to do was take a photo of an old photo with my old old iPhone and it came out all blurry and bigfootish for free.
 | |
| Gerry Brownlee in the Avon River |
I hadn't thought about my short and unsuccessful football career for many years until a few days ago, when I found myself dressed as an All Black in a park while tens of young children kicked balls and ignored me. It was a Saturday morning and it was cold and I was wearing short shorts pulled up high like an 80 year old man. As I looked at Potpinto dressed as a giant testicle my mind drifted back to those frosty football mornings on Tulett Park, dressed in the Chelsea red, white and blue of Nomads United AFC, the second oldest football team in the Christchurch area.
If you can't tell it's me from the face the legs are a dead giveaway. They haven't changed in 29 years and here's a photo to prove it.
 |
| The 2011 RWC Opening Ceremony |
I can't remember much about my football days. I was placed in the 10Fs and from memory that was the team where all the uncoordinated athletically inept boys with pencil legs were placed to make sure we couldn't spoil any other teams with our bad apple ball skills. We were absolute shit. We lost every single game except one when the other team didn't turn up. Our coach's pigeon toed son was in goal and he never tied his laces and fell over often. I was the only one who bothered to obey our coach's instructions by staying in position, meaning I spent 90 minutes every Saturday morning freezing my tits off running up and down the right side of the field as 19 other boys flew around like an angry solar system orbiting a ball I never saw. Even the opposition goalie would join the melee once they realised there wasn't a chance in hell we were ever going to launch a shot at goal. Our valiant coach ran up and down the sideline screaming 'Don't bunch!' as I ran up and down the sideline wishing I was in my nice warm bed thumbing through The Sword of Shannara.
I was terrified of the ball so my weekly 90 minute shuttle runs were a minor blessing. Possessing the ball meant you were ripe to be kicked in the shins by all of the opposing team trying to get the ball off you and most of your own team trying to get the ball off you. I did not consider that to be fun and on the rare occasion when somebody passed to me I immediately kicked it back to them and ran in the opposite direction. During one memorable game our goalie decided he wanted to join the thrashing throng and after some hasty negotiation I agreed to swap positions with him. He pulled his jersey half over his head and immediately tripped over his laces. I got mine halfway over my head and tripped over him. As we both lay blinded in the box like thrashing red, white and blue worms in the sun the other team scored and an unknown assailant kicked me in the shin....probably our coach.
As I gaze at that blurry snapshot of my life on a sunny Saturday morning in April 1982 I am filled with questions, all of which start with 'What the fuck....? My brother was rather good at football so had I convinced myself genes would get me through even though his legs were wide and colourful? Was I foolishly inspired by the All Whites qualifying for the 1982 World Cup? Maybe I was drunk?
Anyway, if you want to see my 8 year old legs running around a park you'd better be quick. Here's the schedule and once we're done my legs will return to long pants and Australia with no hamstrings attached.
No comments:
Post a Comment