Head Full of Goals: Growing Up Slightly Football Mad
‘Football is not a matter of life and death. It’s much more important than that.’ The words of Bill Shankly here are exaggerated for effect but for many, he may have it right on the nose. Others might subscribe to the different, but still profound, maxim that football is the most important non-important thing in life. In this game of two halves and much more besides, are tied pride, identity, hope, and literal blood, sweat, and tears.
During an ongoing pandemic, however, fans can be forgiven for feeling a little out of touch with the most important non-important thing in their lives. At the start of the Premier League season, fans could not attend football stadiums and had to watch — or endure — games with artificial crowd noises much like the canned laughter of your favourite sitcom.
Recent moves to allow up to 2,000 fans into stadiums in Tier 2 areas of the UK — equivalent to Hot but not Extra Hot on the Peri-ometer — may go some way to mend the physical and emotional distance between fans and the beautiful game. The effect of partially filled stands on the players cannot be overlooked. The spirited performances of Liverpool and Everton at home to Wolves and Chelsea respectively are a direct nod to the impact of fans as the twelfth man.
Thinking on life as a football fan in a global pantomime — pronounced pandemic by some — I took a casual stroll to where I felt closest to the sport, my childhood. This trip down memory lane will, I hope, serve as a gentle introduction to the writing of Arte de La Pausa, and the writer behind it.
I can’t exactly remember the first time I kicked a ball, does anyone? But I do have vague memories of running after a spherical object on the dust-coated streets of Lagos, aged 4, with other children. But it was a year later, after landing in Liverpool, that I would come to appreciate playing football through the exciting and, at times, unforgiving arena of the English school playground.
The beginning of my chequered playing career was as one of two centre-backs for my primary school’s football team. When I wasn’t busy shivering or reading the game, I and my then (mini-)afro would be called upon to clear aerial balls. What I brought to the defensive line is a mystery to me, even today. But it won me moderate success. In Year 5, I was called up to play for the year above in the same position. And in that same year, I would be one of two players from that squad selected to trial for the Liverpool Schools Football Association (LSFA). The LSFA counts Wayne Rooney, Steven Gerrard, and Robbie Fowler, among some of its successful graduates.
I would also go on to earn a trial game for Everton Football Club academy. I was unsuccessful but whilst a proverbial knee injury has ended countless dreams of going pro, I may have a more interesting story to tell.
“It was a mix-up” my primary school football coach attempted to assure me in the days after my trial game. The mix-up in question was being played up front as the lone number 9 — a position I had virtually no experience in — even though the Everton scout had invited me to trial after seeing me play in defence. I was shy and didn’t look to question the gaffer, I was just happy for a run-out. The only highlight of my performance would be winning a penalty that eventually won us the game.
But looking back I may have been the victim of what is called ‘stacking’. Stacking is a form of ethnic segregation peculiar to team sports. It involves placing athletes in certain positions based on racial stereotypes. It is well studied in American sport but may have relevance to football (the true — not American — variety). Being black, athletic, and the fastest in both the primary schools I attended, it may have seemed more natural to play me up front and use my pace to get in behind defenders. But I will never know if this was the case because the “mix-up” remained just that, it was never cleared up.
It was in secondary school that I probably had my most fun playing football. In an ironic twist, my new football coach would insist I play up front for the school team after excitedly observing my running form. I didn’t shine in this position, but I remember putting in one very good performance in my first season. It was the type of performance that gave me the confidence to start jogging towards the touchline as soon as the final whistle had blown, stop, and with breath half-caught, ask the coach when I would be receiving the Man of the Match prize, a snickers bar. He replied — equally without hesitation — “tomorrow”.
Fate it seems has a cruel sense of humour as these days I am happiest playing more centrally as a midfielder. It is in the middle of the park I can enjoy winning balls by force or finesse and have more delightful opportunities (or unsuccessful attempts) to wrongfoot and evade opposing players. Central midfield also, for me, provides one of the best seats in the house to watch a passage of combination play unfold while being fully involved in it. I wonder if I could have had even more fun, if that was possible, playing there in my younger days.
It was, however, the green jersey of Graham, one of my school’s four houses, that inspired me with the most pride. The most highly anticipated event of the school’s sporting calendar was the annual Football Interhouse Cup. After collectively walking the ball into the net from kick-off in the ’07 final to secure the title, we became an unstoppable force. Claiming back-to-back titles in Years 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11. In fact, we were brought out of retirement in Sixth Form to, once and for all, cement our reputation as the greatest house team of the Class of 2013. The three other houses after intense deliberation conjured up an All-Star team, with some ‘Newcoats’ for reinforcement, in a bid to humble us. The stage was set for one of the most important goals of my career.
With Graham advancing with the ball down the right flank, I found myself on the left-wing and made a deep angled run into the box. The ball would eventually land at my feet a few yards away from the goal line. On account of the resulting goal, I might count myself as one of the few forwards who (unintentionally) has managed to find the top corner of the net at that distance. After making a similarly long run in the opposite direction to celebrate I was mobbed by teammates. We went on to win the game 2–1 and stamped our mark indelibly on the school’s sporting history.
Mrs. O’Rourke, our form tutor and effectively our club Chairwoman, contributed immensely to our success on and off the pitch. Her buoyant energy, sense of humour, and maternal instincts, kept our spirits high and made for a tightly-knit group. That we would play together with passion and chemistry was almost inevitable.
Sadly, on reflection, that All-Star fixture would be my final competitive game for more than half a decade. Leaving school and making my first tentative steps into adulthood I would find lacing up my boots to play a distant memory. It is fitting that my boots vanished into thin air when, a couple of years later, I looked to dig them out for a kickabout in the park. Adult life, it seems, has the knack of forcing the passions of childhood and youth to stay put. I am more than grateful, then, that in the recent year, a global panoramic notwithstanding, I have, by testing myself in the Lancashire Amateur League, rediscovered my childlike passion for playing the beautiful game.
