The Call Up

Years ago, I came to terms with the fact that I would never play football for England.

Especially seeing as I’ve never really ever played football.

I’ve not even kicked a ball for years.

But still, I always turn up to support the team wearing my full kit; branded socks pulled all the way up to the knee.

So, when it turned out that the England team didn’t have enough subs due to an outbreak of gastroenteritis, and with matters becoming desperate when Harry injured himself in the warmup, there I was, playing up front for England at the World Cup.

Hands on hips, I looked around at the stadium, full to the rafters, halfway to heaven.

It was hard not to feel emotional: my big moment that was never going to come had come.

So overwhelmed was I that I sang God Save the Queen, possibly because of nerves, or maybe just old habits.

And then the referee’s whistle trilled and the game began.

To say it went badly would be an understatement. I tried my best, but my best was really bad.

I was absolutely fucking awful.

To think I’d spent all those years dreaming of the worst moment of my life.

And then the next day I got the shits, too, like the rest of the lads.

The team was so depleted, for the following game they had a pie seller and a mascot playing up front. They played much better than I did.

Even with my dicky tummy, still I turned up to support the team.

vss #35