Wherein a milquetoast sends dispatches from the continuing kitchen sink drama of poorly organised sport…
“LEFT FOOT! LEFT FOOOOOT!!!”
I paraphrase, but that’s more or less the sum of my experience in playing Sunday league football against ‘clever’ right-backs. I am left-footed, and play as a left-winger. I occupy the philosophical space between derring-do and swashbuckling. I run at terrifying leg-speeds. When congested, I run so fast that it loosens phlegm, and leaves blurred lines trailing from my nose as I run, like lines of motion arcing from the limbs of a comic book character that is clearly moving very quickly indeed. Spectating old men watch in awe of this greyhound of a winger, fulsome in his old-fashioned wing-play, harking back to the days of Stanley Matthews, before he sold out and became a “Sir”. The fact of the matter is – I favour my left foot.
