It seems the curtain has come down on my stuttering weird return
season for Llantwit Fardre FC 2nds.
After playing football every year since age seven, a six
season hiatus preceded my return last summer. With any form of fitness a foggy psychedelic
memory from my mid-twenties, a newborn tiny baby and a time eating Cardiff City season
ticket, I might well have chosen the worst possible time for a return to 'proper' football.
To say there was a mountain to climb would be wrong - In my mind I had to
sprint up that mountain while juggling oranges, balancing a ball on my head,
trying not to step on any small children and counting to a million in Japanese
all at the same time.
After six years out though, I yearned for the grass, the
smell of Deep Heat, the comradery of the changing room and the nostalgic high
of pulling on the Llantwit Fardre FC jersey once more.
Pulling on that shirt
made me feel like the food critic did in Ratatouille when he tasted his meal and felt potent nostalgia, instantaneously reliving past joy and glory, hope and
regret.
With teams dropping out (or ‘pussing out’ if you will) of the league
(presumably through fear of playing us?) only a few fixtures remain and the
lads look like finishing in the mid table wilderness.
My original bold season return target of 5 goals was based
on playing around 20 games, so to finish on 2 (TWO) goals in only eight starts (with a few more appearances from the bench) isn’t as baron as I originally thought. A goal every four games is an impressive ratio for a man who cant run without an inhaler and the orgasmic rush of each of those goals will live in my brain for time.
Contributing a cameo role instead of a full-blown campaign
was frustrating and sacrificing playing to watch Cardiff City is even more so because they're shite.
The hamstrings now spasm at the slightest twist and the limbs creek like a
vintage car as the blood pumps but retirement remains on hold (For now).
Bring on the pre-season training (which I will avoid attending).
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