So, last night I played football for the first time in ages, and it was good. It wasn’t a competitive match, just a few of us having a kickabout in the park, but with teams and makeshift nets – jumpers (or those plastic markers) for goalposts and all that.
Unfortunately, in the period of time between now and when I last played my left-footed play hasn’t developed into that of Roberto Carlos’ like I’d hoped, it’s still very much like someone else is controlling it – someone with a very cruel sense of humour, no less.
It’s not just my left foot that hasn’t developed to a World Cup standard, my stamina and level of physical fitness is still somewhere around the level of someone who smokes 20-odd cigars a day. In fact, right now I feel like my legs are made of jelly and my feet still feel like they’re on fire; a rather disastrous sounding combination, I’m sure you’ll agree.
Still, I have next Wednesday off, so I’m going to do it all again then, and I’ll moan about how much pain I’m in again. You know why? Not because I kicked the ball at Chris constantly (not as good as it sounds – he was in the net), but because when Miles swung the ball towards me at a rather uncomfortable pace and I brought it down within a foot of me, it felt really fucking good. Also, because it’s another opportunity to kick it at Chris.
Yes, this is yesterday’s entry. I really ought to write do them every morning, that way my laziness won’t mean they’re posted a day late. Too lazy though.