Full Time

At the age of 52, I've just retired from 11-a-side football; here's why.....

On Sunday 10th June 2001, aged almost 37 and having spent two academic years working in Slovakia, as well as, more importantly, keeping goal for the expatriate Bratislava Academicals club, I flew home from Vienna via Brussels. The day before I’d scored a penalty in our last game of the season, an 8-2 victory over the Slovak Railway Police, which seemed as good a point to bow out as any. You see at that time, I believed I’d completed my last ever season of 11-a-side football, just shy of 27 years after making my competitive debut for Falla Park Juniors against High Felling, in a thoroughly convincing 7-1 win. I scored two goals on that September afternoon in 1974 and can still visualise them; both left footed, both from distance, the second in off the post.  I played up front in those days; did so until 1996 when I chucked in Sunday mornings after getting 2 red cards by the end of September. As a side-line, I had my interest in the small sided game, having taken up 5-a-side keeping in 1990 and loving it; I still do.

Memories don’t pay the bills though. Back on Tyneside, I was unemployed, vulnerably housed, recently divorced and the father of a 6 year old son, so securing paid employment and a permanent roof over my head were of more immediate concern than finding a team to play for. That said, I did pick up a couple of regular 5-a-side kickabouts each week, topped up with infrequent challenge matches at work. 

Consequently it was still something of a bolt from the blue when my workmate Hezza asked if I fancied a game in the North East Over 40s League in late summer 2005, as his team’s regular keeper was on holiday. Formed in 1979, the league consists of 5 divisions of 16 teams, extending from Richmond in North Yorkshire to Ashington in Northumberland, giving well over 1,000 blokes in their 40s, 50s, sometimes 60s and very occasionally 70s, the chance to play competitive football at 10.30 every Saturday morning for 8 months of the year, with the only concessions to age being 5 roll-on / roll-off substitutes and a truncation of the game to 80 minutes. This isn’t walking football; it’s a deadly serious business, where you have to provide proof of age before you can be registered.  Ringers and wrong’uns, as well as culpable secretaries, get sine die bans if caught. I’d been required to show both my passport and driving licence to prove my bona fides in advance of my debut.

So it was on Saturday 20^th August 2005, over 4 years since I’d last stood in front of a full sized set of goals in a properly competitive context, I made my debut for Heaton Winstons in Division 4 of the Steels Over 40s League, away to The Welcome Inn at Blue House Fields in Hendon, Sunderland (the original home of SAFC in 1879 no less) and conceded half a dozen unanswered goals. We changed by the side of the pitch. New players were introduced to old campaigners in the warm up. The only person I knew was Hezza.  I was a bag of nerves, but couldn’t be blamed for any of the goals as the opposition, a right bunch of hairy arsed Mackem radgies, steamrollered us. At full time, everyone paid £4 subs and went to the pub. I loved every second of it, despite the result and had a considerably better time than I did at SJP later that afternoon, watching a stale 0-0 draw with West Ham.

The following week, with John the regular keeper still away, I kept my place as we went to top flight Cramlington Burton House in the whole league Villa Real Cup first round. This time I felt a little less terrified about playing, partly because we took the lead after about 15 seconds; I can still see skinny Robbie Morrow, a whippet of a winger, scampering down the touch line, then slinging in a cross for Brian Jones, a secondary school deputy head rather than his more exotic, iconic 60s namesake, to power a header home from the penalty spot. I made a couple of  smart stops, but their class told and we eventually lost 3-1, which was no disgrace.

Week 3; we are away again, this time in the League to Hartlepool Navy Club on a pitch absolutely decimated by mole activity. John the regular keeper is back, but it’s agreed we’ll play a half each. Tim, our bouffant-haired professional trombonist left back, takes a free kick on the halfway line. It sails into the box, lands on a molehill and proceeds to die, scuttling along the floor, before apologetically dribbling into the net. We’re still giggling about it at half time when we change round a goal up. Having had little or nothing to do, I go off for John, who I’m expecting to be some kind of latter day Sepp Maier considering the hushed tones in which he’s spoken of. He proceeds to concede 3 absolute jokes in 10 minutes, before we get a late consolation. The full time inquest concludes that, as we’ll be back to full strength next week once the holiday season is over, there’s no need for panic; especially as our manager Danny, an absolutely lovely bloke whose death in January 2011 is the one tragic event I’ve known with Winstons, is off on holiday for a month. This means our secretary steps in as boss; he’s called Dave and is a solicitor. John the keeper is a solicitor as well. Perhaps that’s why he shrugs off his howlers. Perhaps that’s why I get an email on the Friday evening saying thanks for my efforts, but that my services were no longer required. An offer was extended for me to meet up with everyone for a post-match drink on Saturday lunchtimes, ending with the caveat “but I suspect you have other things to do with your time.”

To say I was devastated by this brush-off was an understatement. The sense of rejection and crushing blow to my self-esteem was almost incalculable. I felt worthless and stupid for daring to assume I could actually dream of playing regular football again aged 41.  I went out and got absolutely plastered alone and cried myself to sleep, then tried to forget about it. Winstons lost 8-0 to Pennywell Comrades the next morning, but the result was immaterial.  About three weeks later, everything turned out nice again though; Danny was back from his holidays, heard about Dave’s dealings with me, then picked up the phone to extend a personal invite to rejoin the fold. He couldn’t promise me a game, but he said I deserved a place in the squad on merit. Of course I accepted his offer. Danny, that phone call is something I’ll be eternally grateful to you for my friend.

I immediately got into the routine of away games that autumn. For some bizarre reason, our pitch at Benfield School was unavailable until the New Year. Therefore my travelling companions became Rod the full back and Robbie the winger; a pair of displaced Mancunian reds. We’d set off from Robbie’s in Jesmond at 9, always listening to Sounds of the Sixties with Brian Matthew,  regularly getting lost and being hopelessly late in those pre Sat Nav days. The entire squad used to meet up at Washington Services  (A1) or the Echo building in Pennywell (A19) for our forays into deepest darkest Durham, Wearside or Teesside.  Memorably, we went to West Cornforth and got so hopelessly lost, we stopped at the first football field we could find, and then attempted to get changed in a Scout Hut at Ferryhill where the South West Durham Under 9s tournament was taking place. We avoided being placed on the Sex Offenders register, before finally arriving at the pitch in Mainsforth at about 11.15, to see their players lounging around on the floor and the ref practising his golf swing with a metal wood in the centre circle. I’m almost ashamed to say we won 2-0; mind I didn’t play. In fact got 2 more games in goal that whole season when John was on his February skiing break, though I found myself playing in a variety of outfield roles as an emergency substitute when we were severely depleted, on about a dozen occasions. That became my signature role; unused spare keeper, flag waving assistant ref and bit part sub. Meanwhile m’learned friend in nets conceded an average of 3 goals a game, at least one being a lob and another at his near post.

We finished 4^th bottom that year and in a desire to improve out lot, Danny and Dave stepped aside from selection matters, in favour of Ash, who had been a player before my time. He’s a bit of a tactician Ash and he certainly had an effect on our league position. It got worse as in 2006/2007 when we secured the antepenultimate berth, though I did score my first and only competitive goal for Winstons and second one this millennium. Away to Peterlee Hearts of Oak, I was told to “make a nuisance of yourself up front.” Their full back was trying to run the clock down by knocking the ball back to his keeper when I intervened.  

Remembering the poor touches he’s displayed when fielding backpasses previously, anticipating the ball bouncing slightly higher than normal because of the hard pitch, feeling it hit the top of my right thigh and rolling free as the keeper fails to get it under control, taking a steadying touch with my right foot to take it away from him, then rolling it in to an empty net with my left instep from the angle of the six yard box, before running off behind the goal and punching the air with my left hand. Going in to injury time, we were now losing only 5-2.  It was one of the highlights of my life.

That summer, we went on a recruitment drive and signed some less than terrible players, such as Jules, Scoot and George, to finish 6^th in 2007/2008. The tough thing about the bottom division is that each season a couple of new clubs, often from sizeable communities, such as Easington or Shildon, generally consisting of Sunday morning teams who have grown old together, join and more often than not, run away with the league, while teams higher up find they’re just too old to carry on and pack in. As a result occasionally more than 3 teams are promoted to fill up the gaps; in 07/08 the top 5 went up. We missed out by a point and it looked like our ship had sailed, as in the following years we finished 8^th, 9^th, 11^th, 12^th and 9^th again. In all those seasons, bar an extended run in 08/09 when John was out injured from January onwards, I played a maximum of 6 games a season, but remained involved as webmaster, treasurer and linesman. I was the archetypal clubman; the spare keeper at one of the worst sides in the region. Dozens of players came and went; they retired or transferred, or just stopped coming without saying why, including Hezza who’d recruited me in the first place. The hardcore 15 were always there; if there were only a dozen of us, I’d still be the one on the touchline, but I didn’t care.

Why did I put up with this this? Because I loved it; I loved the sense of camaraderie and belonging it gave me. For the first time in my life, I felt fully secure and accepted in male company, despite having played for hopeless football teams all my life. Basically, while growing up I didn’t have a proper family experience, which is partly why I struggle with rejection, as I spent so many years being repeatedly told I was worthless by the monsters who were my parents. My dysfunctional childhood lead me towards searching out surrogate units with which to bond and Winstons, like the post punk music scene of the late 70s and early 80s, ultra-left wing political groupings and various writers co-operatives I’ve been involved with over the years, provided me with a safe haven. I was able to be myself and, in the main, to be accepted for who I was.  Of course, Winstons wasn’t a cult or a commune, it was a sports team and obviously I’m well aware of my limitations as a keeper. I’ve always prided myself on good reactions, safe handling and decent kicking, but I’m lousy in the air when it comes to crosses, susceptible to getting lobbed and ponderously slow, though I never considered myself the inferior of John in any way; however these limitations were outweighed by my willingness to help the club out, in whatever role, for as long as I was needed.

Summer 2013 saw a revolution at Winstons. We’d moved pitches firstly from the prohibitively expensive Benfield School, firstly to the sometimes swamplands, often dustbowl Paddy Freeman’s Fields in High Heaton and finally to the Bigges Main home of the legendary Wallsend Boys’ Club. A subtle change of name from Heaton to Wallsend Winstons enabled us to recruit half a dozen top quality, youngish players; blokes I’d paid money to watch in the Northern Alliance and Northern League. Fellas who’d turned out for my club Newcastle Benfield in the past, like Tom Rantoul who got 46 goals that season, the same as his strike partner Chris Arnott.  Wallsend lads, who looked upon it as an honour to represent their home town. One of the new arrivals was former Percy Main keeper Ian Hall; I couldn’t hold a candle to him. Sometimes you just know when it is time to go and I prepared for my imminent retirement with good grace. Suddenly John the keeper announced he “wasn’t standing on the touchline for anyone” and transferred to Mill View WMC, meaning I was able to resume my place as back-up keeper. Except Hally then broke his foot in our season-opening cup tie win over South Shields Catholic Club. This mishap meant was I was back between the posts for the next 8 games. Despite a catastrophic false start away to Hartlepool where we got blitzed 4-0, we won every subsequent game, scored loads and I had virtually nothing to do while deputising for The Halls.

That season, we roared to a league and cup double, winning the division by 27 points. The trophy was presented live on Football Focus, in a special edition from Wallsend Boys’ Club. To paraphrase Larkin, I’d never known success so whole and unexpected. Hally knew the score and would voluntarily go off to allow me some game time whenever the points were safe; I really appreciated the way he thought about me. It hadn’t been like that before.  Being on the field at the final whistle when we won the cup 4-1 over Horden Veterans was one of the most special sporting moments I’ve ever known.

In 2014/2015, we missed a second successive promotion by 2 points, but won the higher divisional cup. I played a few games, including conceding 7 at home to Horden, when Hally was stricken with flu and I’d spent the entire night previous in North Tyneside General Hospital A&E department with my mother after she’d fallen. I felt like retiring, but in retrospect I simply shouldn’t have played.

In 2015/2016, the cup remained in our possession and we eased to promotion as runners-up. Hally had a few injury niggles and I had about half a dozen games in total, which was great. In the season closer, for the first time ever, I was named Man of the Match. To me, it was an honour I could never have dreamed of being awarded. During the summer, I celebrated my 52^nd birthday and the club changed its name to Wallsend Boys Club Over 40s. With Hally on his jollies, I joined the hallowed ranks of Alan Shearer, Michael Carrick, Steve Bruce, Lee Clark and Alan Thompson, debuting for “the Boyza” in a 2-1 loss to Newton Aycliffe Cobblers’ Hall in the Villa Real Cup. Neither goal was my fault. The next week, a league game at Durham Stonebridge, some of them were; lobbed for the first, beaten in the air at a corner for the second and left flatfooted by a curling free kick for the last. I simply wasn’t good enough any longer. The combination of a higher division and the passage of time had checkmated me.

August 20^th 2016 marked the 11^th anniversary of my first appearance; things had changed a bit in the interim period in terms of playing strength. We went in 8-0 up against Gateshead Teams Club and I came after the break on for Hally as part of wholesale changes to give everyone a run out. The final score was 10-0 and, in all honesty, I didn’t even touch the ball. I remained sub not used in subsequent weeks as we defeated Pelton Crown 4-2 away and Hartlepool Catholic Club 4-1 at home on the first Saturday in September, but didn’t worry about not playing as I knew Hally was away for the following Saturday when we were due to play North Shields Pineapple.

I’d not been well in the week leading up to the Hartlepool fixture; the tail end of a summer cold had given way to a chest infection which, allied to my constant intimations of mortality, in the shape of clicking, arthritic knees and incessant lower back pain from a dodgy SI joint, had me beat. I’d come in from work on the Friday, worn out and struggling for breath as I sat down to take my shoes off. There was no other explanation for my decrepitude; I was actually feeling properly old for the first time in my life. Allied to that, I somehow managed to forget my boots that morning and had been forced to root through the bag of abandoned kit for a pair that were almost the right fit. Half a size too large, they chafed my heel, leaving a blood blister that lasted the whole of the following week.

Limping back to the changers, Ash took me to one side and informed me he’d not be playing me the week after when Hally was away. Instead, Davey Mauchline one of our younger players, a very versatile one too, was going to play in nets as he had experience of doing to.  Three years on from my previously presumed retirement, this time I knew the game really was up. Clubs at our level don’t have third choice keepers, so I shook hands and wished him all the best, before announcing my immediate retirement, except in dire emergencies.

I let everyone know by a mass email and was incredibly touched by both the kindness of those who sought to dissuade me and the support of those who backed my decision. We had a team night out that Saturday and it is one of the best we’ve ever had. I didn’t know it was physically possible to drink so many G&Ts. Throughout the night, I explained my reasons to a whole load of the lads.

In the end they all understood that this decision wasn’t a strop or a sulk; it was made in the best interests of the team, as had been Davy’s selection as deputy for Hally. In point of fact, Hally had been sent off in the cup final at the end of the previous season and Davy put the gloves on as we won 4-2, keeping a clean sheet in the process.  Secure in this knowledge, I knew my retirement was also a decision made for my best interests, as I realised the process of ageing catches up on us all. In my 11 years with Winstons, I must have played with the thick end of 100 players; only 4 of us who played against The Welcome Inn still show up now. Aidan, still getting his game in centre midfield, is 56; Rod is 67 in November and will always make himself available when we’re short, while Trev is 61 and made 2 appearances last year and still comes along to watch. Like the latter pair, I’m determined to remain involved, however tangentially, by following the lads and cheering them on from the sidelines, as they are representing the club I’ve been proud to call my own for more than a decade.

In contrast to my first appearance, Davy saved a penalty as we won 4-2 against North Shields Pineapple. Halls was back in goal the week after when we went joint top after beating Darsley Park 3-1. I saw both games, held the flag, kicked every ball and punched the air when we scored. It’s in the blood you see.

I haven’t retired from playing completely; 6-a-sides on Monday and Thursday will continue until I physically can’t play any longer. There are still 2 pairs of £50 keeper gloves and a brace of proper keeper tops and bottoms I intend to get full use from. However, I have rationalised and thinned out the amount of kit in the bottom of the wardrobe. Rolls of tape, spare laces, boot spanners and a plethora of half empty tubes of tiger balm; all gone to charity, recycling or land fill. In some ways it reminded me of emptying my dad’s wardrobe after his passing.  The essential difference between death and retirement, is that my departure from the 11-a-side game is both voluntary and without regrets.

Over 40s football gave me not only 3 winners’ medals (my only previous one was from the D&P Garages Trophy from Sunday football in 1993), but endless glorious memories of minor triumphs (penalty saves against Willow Pond in 2008 and Darsley Park in 2013), close friendships, savage but gentle mickey taking, lots of serious drinking and an unbreakable bond of belonging that I’ll take to my grave.

Winstons, I gave you everything for 11 years, but I gained an infinite amount more in return and for that I’m eternally grateful.