A short story

Before you start you should know that I actually don't care at all about football. Any football knowledge contained within this story is merely coincidental and is not intended to bear any relation to any real game, living or dead. (I googled for facts)

Also, hi everyone! *waves*

 I am Football

I am a footballer. That isn’t to say that playing football is something I do, what I mean is that this is who I am. Without football, I am nothing. All I am is this beautiful game.

When I was a boy, life was pretty tough. I don’t dwell on it now; the toughness hasn’t left much long-term scarring except some oddities; some quirks and eccentricities. One of these is my victory dance.

My mother was a dancer. She used to dance all the time, and I mean all the time. The only times she stopped dancing were times when she was angry or sad. As time went on I suppose the dancing became more and more rare, but I was gone by then. When I say she danced all the time, part of what I mean is that she did everyday things in a dancy way. She walked as if it were part of a dance; she would reach up to a shelf as if this step had been choreographed for her and rehearsed for weeks. Every movement had precision and grace and for all of her faults that have now left us estranged her dancing remains with me and its traces remain in me. I don’t dance all the time. I seek out dancers to see and watch and I notice and befriend the naturally graceful, but I don’t dance through life like my mother did. What I do though, is dance occasionally. I express my joy through dance. Since childhood I always have and this has not always been understood. In some situations, if I’m in the supermarket and I find my favourite biscuits are on a special deal I’ll have a little spin in the aisle. It makes my kids laugh. I’m glad they see the beautiful parts of the dancing, a link to their grandmother that they won’t ever know. I dance when I have a success, I dance when I want to show love to someone. Those who know me well love my dancing. A little jig to say “I love this” or “I love you” and without the mundanity of language I can say so much in a step or two, in a turn or a jump, a wiggle or a gesture. Yes, those who know me love my dancing. I call this quirk my ‘victory dance’ – where there’s a win, there’s a wiggle. That’s my motto. Not everyone feels the same way about my dancing. I struggle to understand these people.

I’ve been a professional footballer for 9 years. I was unspeakably lucky that the first team I was ever signed to was one of the top teams in the world. It was a futsal team. Maybe you don’t know about futsal, lots of people don’t.

Futsal comes from a Spanish word, it basically means “room football”. It’s much the same as regular football, still governed by the FA and the rules are basically the same. It’s different in that it’s played inside and the ball is a bit smaller, less bouncy, it has to be because we play on a hard surface. Lots of futsal players transfer out to regular football. Generally football players don’t take us too seriously because they think what we do is much easier than what they do. Generally these are the players who’ve never tried it.

The fans were so loyal; really they were the best thing about the team. Their loyalty helped us play – they were patient when we were learning new tactics and trying things out. Sometimes the new formations worked perfectly and they celebrated with us. Sometimes they didn’t work at all and they didn’t complain or waiver in their support, they saw what we were trying to do and trusted that we would work on it.  Whenever I scored a goal or made a great pass, I couldn’t help myself but have a little victory dance. This wasn’t conscious you understand, this is just what I do. The fans loved it, some of them danced back at me. They understood that the dance was a dance of joy for them, they were the reason I wanted to play and wanted to play well. When they danced with me I felt safe, appreciated, loved.

I am football. This game is my beating heart. Those were some of the best days of my life.

Then after 6 seasons, our manager and coach retired from the game. It’s always a sad time when someone leaves a team, we’d had transfers of course and it had almost always been fine. But this was different. We didn’t know what we were going to get and some of the guys were terrified. Much as I understood their fear, I didn’t feel it. I don’t get scared by this sort of thing because I’ve seen over the years how changes you aren’t sure of can turn out to be incredible. A few of us felt the same way: Bring it on.

The new manager was very different; everything about the man was different. It was pretty clear from the start that his loyalty wasn’t with the fans, it was with the FA. That’s ok of course; we do all work for them when you look at it in that way. But I can’t share that mentality because if I’m not doing this for the fans then I don’t much see the point in doing it. They call it the beautiful game, it’s the ones there to see the beauty that I play for, this just seems obvious to me.

The FA make the rules, sometimes it seems like they dictate to us at the bottom of the pile what beauty is and what the game is and what the fans need. It’s ok, you have to do what you have to do, actually they do often have a point and we get a lot of new ideas from their guidelines and things. One thing though, they don’t like the victory dance.

A lot of the time the things that come down from the FA are things we already know and already do. Like I said, we’re one of the best teams in the country. We still have to go to the meetings and listen to the speeches and we don’t mind that. But we do it understanding that these things need to be said, it isn’t necessarily directed as us.

Then my wife had a baby, it was an amazing time of course, but I had to take a season off the team. It was all ok, all by the book. It isn’t that uncommon. While I was away, the manager found this new boy, he was there on a temporary transfer from a different team actually, covering for one of the others who had an injury.

When I got back to training full time again, the new guy had been signed. A full time paid up extra sub was a bit of a weird idea. But I really liked him and he had some decent skills so I could see why they wanted him around. I didn’t know the new manager too well so I figured he knew what he was about and left it.

That was a mistake.

The day I got back to training, that very day, the manager called me in and said he was reviewing all contracts. We had a funding issue and too many players and someone had to go. I’ll cut a long and painful story short and tell you what you’ve probably guessed, it was me. I had to transfer as quickly as possible, there was no other option.

I am football. This game is my bleeding heart. That was the worst time of my life.

I’ve been playing long enough now that pretty much every team my agent contacted said I could try-out. But team after team turned me down. My transfer fees are pretty high and the newer, less experienced players are easier to mould. I don’t really know the reasons but the rejections really got to me. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t understand.

Then an ex-team-mate who I saw now and then gave me a nod, he knew one of his team were transferring, they were just waiting for the paperwork. They weren’t interested in someone with no experience, they wanted someone with skills. I got a try-out. The other guys at the try-out were good, really good, but they wanted me. Relief and joy and excitement. It was all going to be ok and I could get back to playing soon.

Now this was regular football, field football. Transfers from futsal to football have been made in the past, the ex team mate had done really well. I didn’t go in thinking that it would be exactly the same, of course not. But I hadn’t ever thought it would be so different either.

The ball was bigger, that was the first thing that bothered me. It was ok at first, but when you play all time and train all the time you really feel it in the calves with a bigger ball. The fans were different too. Fickle. They’d boo and hiss at the team they were there to support, they shouted at the ref and the players if they didn’t like (or didn’t understand) what they were doing. It was pretty tough. The game was longer too. A futsal game is 20 minutes each half. It’s fast and furious, it takes precision and speed. Football lasts 45 minutes each half, it takes endurance and stamina. The training sessions are longer too. The FA care much more about the ‘real’ football, and its players. They paid more attention and scrutinised more. The coach had to keep them satisfied, so we had to keep the coach satisfied. The way I saw it I had 2 choices: train tougher, longer, harder. Watch the others and learn how to work with this ball, this surface, these fans, this pitch, this pressure, this endurance, this beautiful game. Or else quit. If this isn’t football and only futsal is football then maybe I should stop. But I’d seen these transfers work and I knew that people loved this game, ‘regular’ football, the same way I had loved futsal, ‘room’ football, my football. That was worth working for so I chose the former.

I came to training early and I left late, I put in all the hours I could. But it all caught up with me. The physical exertion on top of the worry and everything the transfer had cost me all hit me at once and I’ll admit, I failed my team. I was the reason for too many losses. They were right to call me on it. I had to take some time out.

But then, next season, I was back and ready. I was healthier than I had ever been, even at my peak at my old club and my fighting spirit was raring to go. When the season started I threw all I had into being the best I could be. I started early and finished late. I trained at weekends. I sacrificed spending time with my daughter, my biggest fan, to spend time with the fans of the club. I signed autographs for hours and tried to figure out what they wanted from me. These were new fans and some were so keen on having a new player. They saw my skills and instantly followed and emulated me. I saw glimpses returning of the passion I had felt before and I was so excited. These small sparks could be fanned into a roaring flame again and it would be worth it if I could work hard enough to get there. And work I did.

But the differences were still challenges and I couldn’t see how to deal with them all. Then over time I realised that the team operated and interacted differently to how I was used to. We were at the bottom of the league with a threat of relegation and it was tough for everyone. Every game mattered and every point counted. The captain, the coach and the manager all worked together but it seemed like it was them vs the rest of us sometimes. If someone thought I’d made a bad pass or missed a goal I could have made, they didn’t come to me. No one said a word. I noticed, of course, and I was working on it. But no one saw that. I could have explained if they’d asked, but no one really spoke to me. I knew someone had noticed my mistakes, but never who. I only found out from the captain and all the voices were never matched up to the faces. So when I needed some advice I couldn’t tell where to turn. If I asked a teammate for a tip, there was a chance they’d go to the captain and tell them there were things I wasn’t good at. It was pretty scary. But as I’ve said, I don’t do this for the captain, or for the coach or the manager. I don’t play for my team. I play for the fans.

I saw other people make mistakes; I saw it all the time. But I never said anything. Sometimes I tried to share ideas hidden in changing room banter, but I never felt brave enough to really offer to help anyone. I couldn’t tell the captain about the mistakes people made, sometimes it was the captain but I learned pretty quick not to mention it. Some of the skills I had from my futsal days would have really helped a lot of the players, but no one noticed and used me for those. I coached a local team once a week and I taught them all I knew. They loved it and one day they are going to be amazing footballers. They also loved my victory dance.

The new fans were pretty split on the victory dance; some of them loved it and even started dancing back at me. That was awesome. Plenty didn’t like it and some even wrote letters to say so. Not to me though, obviously. I wouldn’t even find out about these until later. That wasn’t how things worked here.

One girl, she was a big fan. She loved my victory dance and she saw the things I was good at that other people didn’t see. She met me one time after a game and said she was thinking of coaching her son’s team. We met a few times then, over a month or so, I showed her the ropes and warm-ups to do. I told her the best ways to keep the kids focused, we worked really well together and it was nice to put some time into the fans. Even if it did mean I trained a little less that month and saw my own kid a little less too. Once she got going I went to her first training session with the ‘Little Blues’ and it was great! I talked it through with her and even wrote to her son’s school to say how great she was. But then, I had to get back to my training. I saw her around sometimes but I guess that wasn’t enough for her. She started spreading rumours and not turning up to games as much as she used to. That was ok, a little disappointing but I figured that was her baggage not mine. But then suddenly she was gone. I never saw her again.

I was still training hard, like sixty hours a week hard. Some things I was getting better at and some things I wasn’t. I was being played in midfield most games when I was more useful as a striker. I spent a lot of time working on finding new ways to train to fix what wasn’t being fixed and picking on every part of my game that I thought I could do better. I was training with everyone else, but I had so many questions to ask, I wanted so much advice, I often went to the captain for help. I arranged to call in to the coach too, I had run some techniques past him in training and he’d seemed ok with them, but the time I was putting in was starting to affect my performance so I knew I needed better guidance. I could have lied and covered up my mistakes, I could have deflected the coach’s attention by pointing out the mistakes other people made but, well, it isn’t in my nature. I set up a meeting with the coach but I hadn’t arranged a time yet. Turned out I never would.

Next thing you know the coach calls me in for a meeting. I’m not playing well enough, I haven’t scored enough goals this season, I’m not controlling the ball. We’ll see the manager, but this isn’t good enough. I might be sacked, then I’ll never play again.

If I had to transfer again it would be even tougher, people had seen my game deteriorate as I tried to train through the change in skills from futsal to football and it was too early to say I was a great footballer and to start all over again at another new club. If I even got a try-out I’d be surprised if I’d be signed. It’s a small world, football.

I’m shocked, scared and confused. I’ve worked so hard, I can’t understand what’s happened. I worked to be the best player I can be and I wasn’t anywhere near finished yet! If the coach had told me I wasn’t working on the right things or I wasn’t working in the right ways or if…or if…or if…

What makes a good player? I thought I was worth waiting for. I put in the hours and picked up my flaws, I hid nothing and exposed no one. I was willing to do more or do different, I presented myself as a dry sponge to water. Ready potential. I cannot understand.

What makes a good team? I thought I was helping others by helping myself. I asked every question and examined every critique, I asked for very little and gave all I had. I thought the team, the captain, the coach, the manager, the FA were all parts of the same whole. I thought we were all here for the same purpose. As I danced, they only watched in silence until the day they could ensure no one would see me dance again. I cannot understand.

Who do I play for? I thought I played for the fans. I sign their shirts and relish their cheers. I gave myself over to their passions with all that I had and all that I am. I heard them boo and hiss with sadness and self-deprecation, not with anger or fear of rejection. I was never shown the letters they sent until it was too late to reply. I cannot understand.

The coach, he loves stories and the manager, well he loves football. So I wrote them a story about football. Because maybe then they can understand me the way that I wish I could understand them.

I am football. This game is my broken heart. I am a footballer. That isn’t to say that playing football is something I do, what I mean is that this is who I am. Without football, I am nothing. All I am is this beautiful game.