So here I am, feeling pretty smug because I did it!  Not a big deal in the greater scheme of things I know, but to me it feels like a bit of a game changer.  I learned a lot about walking football and a whole lot more about me.

I won’t pretend that I didn’t spend the last few minutes before setting off in trying to talk myself out of it because I did, but the arrival of ‘a workman’ with a ‘five minute job’ to complete Just as I was about to leave actually worked for me because I became anxious that I would be late and I hate being late, so as soon as he had finished, I jumped into the car and set off without another thought in my head other than arriving on time.  I got out of the car and found myself striding across to the pitch, half way there before I realised what I was doing.  There were already a lot of people warming up, changing, chatting and I walked in, said “Hi, I’m Colin.  I’ve come to play,” and it was done.  No way of turning back.

Let me deal first with some of my many misconceptions and fears.  I was, by the time the two matches kicked off, one of probably thirty players.  Every single one of the twenty nine others was welcoming, shook my hand, introduced themselves by name – which there is zero chance of me remembering – and took me in.  A number of them told me, “Don’t be fooled by our age, none of us has lost our competitive spirit,” which cheered me greatly.  In fact, looking around, I was certainly towards the upper end of the age range and, when the games started it was immediately apparent that many of my fears were misplaced.  The first thing I noticed was that ‘walking football’ involves an awful lot of running about whenever you think that you might be able to get away with it and whilst tackling from behind is, indeed, frowned upon, tackling from the front is alive and well.  I have a double-sized purple ankle to prove it. 

After twenty-five minutes I was gasping for water, after fifty I was gasping for air and after seventy five I would have liked to have played for thirty more.  The pitches are small and with seven or eight-a-side (depending in which game you find yourself) relatively crowded, so you are constantly on the move and – with a three-touch rule in place – looking to pass the ball as soon as you receive it.  This is not my game – in as much as I ever had one – and remembering that I I must not pass ahead of my teammates as they cannot run but to their feet so that they can pass it as far away from me as possible is proving tricky.  I can’t pretend that I wasn’t properly rusty: I’ve done little but kick-about with the grandkids for the last few years, but despite the fact that I realise I was in the main a liability, I wasn’t totally abject and everybody seemed happy to have me there so I am confident that within a couple of weeks I will be properly back in the swing: still crap, but as good as I can be.  I was actually praised because I didn’t get penalised for running which, apparently, almost everybody does at first although, if I’m honest, I’m not sure how I feel about that.  Damned by faint praise I think.  It’s probably no surprise that ‘my side’ (orange bibs) lost badly.  The other side, they told me, contained many of the best players.  I think they were probably trying to make me feel better.

But here’s the thing, I will go back next week and if the chance arises I will go for that ‘social’ afterwards (I wasn’t quite that brave in week one.)  Names and faces will come to me slowly and eventually I might even be able to put them together correctly.  Because I was unsure whether there would be a ‘week two’ for me I was wearing a pair of crappy old trainers which everyone told me were not suitable for the artificial pitch.  I think they were hoping that my out-of-practice ineptitude would be remedied by the correct footwear.  Well I’m definitely prepared to give it a bash.  I’ll buy a pair before I go back.

I was called over by the organiser at the end who reminded me that I was welcome to join them for a drink and a chat, but I declined.  I will face that hurdle in the future.  He then showed me the contents of the rucksack he had with him.  It contained the most comprehensive First Aid kit I think I have ever seen including a defibrillator.  “We’ve had it five years,” he said, “and haven’t had to use it yet.  I’m pleased you didn’t need it.”  I told him to catch up on the instructions and I’d see what I could do next week.  He smiled, I’m not sure why.  Could have been the joke, or it could have been indigestion, for which he almost certainly had the cure in his bag.

Anyway there you are, I went and I will go back.  I learned that walking football is not a stroll in the park and that at least thirty other people in the village do not want it to be; I learned that I can do things alone and that, by and large, people don’t mind having me around, and I learned that retribution for a kick on the ankle is much easier to achieve with people of your own age, but almost impossible to justify.