How One Man Walked His Way Into the England Football Team Aged 63
A new version of soccer is giving thousands a second chance to play. Could James Trant fulfill the potential he ignored as a teenager?
March 2019, Eastleigh, Hampshire and a handful of spectators, all older men, cheer a goal. On the pitch, some are less amused.
“You can’t do that, Vince,” said one.
“Do what?” He asked.
“Run,” came the reply.
“He kept a foot on the floor as he was moving,” said another. “It’s a goal.”
What constitutes running may not be clear, but it’s most definitely not allowed in walking football. The game has become one of the UK’s fastest growing sports since John Croot developed it in Chesterfield in 2011, after trying to think of activities to boost the health and well-being of people aged over 60. The BBC reported around 40,000 play it across the land. On a Thursday afternoon in Eastleigh there were 36 playing it in three simultaneous games of six-a-side.
What constitutes running may not be clear, but it’s most definitely not allowed in walking football.
Physical contact is also out of bounds. Not that you could tell from James Trant’s face. He wore shades. One of his grandchildren had accidentally poked his left eye. It hemorrhaged. The others joined James here, as they did every week. If injury stopped them playing then they came to watch and share a laugh and a joke.
Wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day was normally reason enough to be made fun of. But it wasn’t a normal day. The others were more interested talking to James about his picture in the local paper. In it, his gaze is focused on the ball, which he is about to shoot into the back of Gibraltar’s net. It was James’s first goal for England’s over 60 walking football team.
Les Gatrell is Eastleigh’s over 60 walking football captain. He had emailed James, describing his international call-up as well deserved. “I’ve kept that message,” said James, pointing to his phone. It’s the only time he can remember being praised for playing football.
James had the opportunity to make the England squad for the 2019 Walking Football European Nations Cup. He just needed to continue doing the rehabilitation exercises his physiotherapist had instructed, then perform well in England’s games building up to the tournament. That way he stood a chance of being invited to the trial, where he would need to impress the management to make the ten-man squad. That, and stay fit. No small task at the age of 63.
Three years earlier, James had dropped from 55 hours a week at work to zero. Now thrust into a retired life of leisure — in theory, anyway — he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he liked. It was driving him nuts. First, he tried golf. Playing a brilliant shot on one hole then crap the next infuriated him. Tennis wasn’t much better. James’s wife, Jill, is gregarious and chatty, until you ask about her husband’s behaviour on court. Then she raises a hand to signal the end of the conversation.
What was supposed to be a relaxing game with his wife and friends became a showcase for James’s competitive nature. If he wasn’t berating himself when failing to hit a winning shot, he was rolling around the court, having rushed to the net to try pass his opponent. Sleep doesn’t come easy, so he puts off going to bed until late. “I don’t like lying in either,” he says. “You die in bed.” Put bluntly, James didn’t know what to do with himself.
He was always sporty. Competition was strong growing up under the same roof as two sisters and four brothers. The boys’ daylight hours were spent outdoors playing sport; the garage door and the house windows often bore the brunt of their games. Their father had come over from Ireland to start his own civil engineering business. He worked long hours, but he didn’t mind the racket, unless he was trying to grab a few winks on a Sunday. But other than that James’s father was happy to see his children outside playing, much like he had as a youngster competing in Gaelic football. Football and family were the twin pillars of James’s life. Then one day they came crashing down.
Football and family were the twin pillars of James’s life. Then one day they came crashing down.
On New Year’s Eve 1983, James and a heavily pregnant Jill went to see his father, who was readying himself for a trip to Ireland the following day. Noticing his Dad was on the phone in his office, James waved him goodbye. As James turned his car around to leave he heard a bang on the window. He switched off the engine. It was his Dad.
I’ve got two things to say to you, his father told him. “Don’t you ever leave without saying goodbye,” he said, before turning to Jill. “And you my dear — don’t have that baby until I get home.”
A week later, James got a call from his brother Tim. Dad was dead. His car had skidded on black ice, off the road and into a concrete post. The next day, Jill gave birth to James’s second daughter. They named her Philippa, after Philip, the late grandfather she would never meet. Life had changed overnight for the Trant family. James moved counties to become involved with the engineering business his father started in Hampshire.
He considered finding a new team to play for. The season before there had been a cup final win, his semi-final goal got them there. Then reality dawned. As the father of young children, did he have time for football? He’d already cut the season short with his move back home. And even if he did start again, he would have to give up once more soon enough. What was he going to achieve at 28 that he hadn’t already? He didn’t want to say goodbye again — there had been enough of that of late. So he hung up his boots for good. It was time to focus on family.
James and Jill had two more children. The family was now made up of three girls and a boy. When the four of them were small James would leave for work before they were awake. Now they were grown up and gone, just like his father and football. With his work life over and his children grown up, he needed something new in his life. His wife told him to go and find it.
The stillness of retirement brought back James’s memories of playing football as a boy. The first game he played for Southampton schoolboys at The Dell, Southampton’s home until 2001. Around 1000 people turned up to watch them play Reading. James was told to mark the opposition’s England schoolboys striker. When he took a throw-in James waited on the touchline in front of him. James felt embarrassed. The feeling soon passed. Southampton were 2–1 up with time running out when their corner-kick was booted clear. James beat his opponent to the ball, then struck it with his left foot thirty-five yards out from goal. It was brought to a sudden halt by the back of the net.
Words were just as memorable. A scout patrolled the touchline of a sun-baked pitch during a six-a-side tournament before delivering his verdict on James’s ability. His sports teacher relayed the message — a yard too slow. Written off in four syllables. Maybe he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. Nobody had ever told him he had what it took to be a professional footballer.
He remembers listening to his sports teacher dishing out compliments to his teammates. “What about me?” asked James. For a moment, his teacher looked confused by the question. James had played well, his teacher told him. He always did. This was the first James had heard of it. So while he had his moments, James just didn’t see his future in the game. He saw himself as a doctor, or maybe a veterinarian. But Southampton saw potential. One day they arrived at his house to offer him a chance to fulfill it.
Opportunity stood waiting outside the front door. James recalls Southampton’s John McGrath, a center-half who was reputed to prepare for games by working a blob of Ralgex into his scrotum before head-butting the lockers. Could James say no to him? Could anyone? His father answered the door, calling James to join them to discuss Southampton’s proposal. James refused, retiring upstairs to the privacy of his room. Downstairs he could hear the muffled words of his eldest brother Patrick: He doesn’t want to do it, Dad. Nearly 50 years later that day is still clear in his memory. “I don’t really know why I turned them down,” he said. “Being a footballer wasn’t on my mind back then.” It was later.
James kept himself busy in retirement. He had no expectations on a visit to a finance and pensions event changing his life. A conversation there with a bank manager veered onto the safe, familiar territory of football; in particularly a new version of the game called walking football. James hadn’t played properly for 30 years, now he had time to do so.
He’d maintained the physique of his younger years, standing five-feet-ten and weighing 83 kilos. Soon he became a regular at Eastleigh’s weekly walking football session. It reunited James with long lost friends. While stubble and cropped hair wasn’t an unusual look among the thirty-odd players who showed up every week, James recognized the eyes of someone he hadn’t seen in decades. It was an old school friend. Football had brought them back together with the game the loved. They weren’t alone.
Ian Ritchie is in his seventies. Age hadn’t stopped him goalkeeper coaching, the club he was involved with folding did. His fitness had gone with it, leaving him feeling sluggish. Walking football got him back in shape. His wife tells him off for running up the stairs, but he tells her it’s all part of his new fitness regime.
James hadn’t played properly for 30 years, now he had time to do so.
Norman Pendlebury was in his eighties and had been involved in sport all his life, but still managed to give his teammates a scare when he lay on the deck, assumed knocked out by a stray ball. Norman was a tough old boy though, and played on. The game gave him a renewed purpose he feared he may have lost after the passing of his wife. At 84, he’d become one of the lads again. While Boyd Hilton, now in his mid-sixties, was once an accomplished striker in local football. Every week plays in blue bibs on the middle pitch and always kicks the same way. Dementia may have clouded his mind, but it hadn’t robbed him of his involvement in football.
Eastleigh selected their competition teams for several different age categories from the players at these weekly sessions. The most prestigious competition is the National. Yorkshire’s Leggy Mambos are the northern force of the game. Founded by England’s Vic Vaines, the club won the first National tournament in 2014. The star player of their over 60 team is prolific England striker Alan Davies, who needs little invitation or space to find the net. In 2017, the Mambos faced Eastleigh in the National final.
The game was played in Solihull in the Midlands. On arrival, James and his Eastleigh teammates were met by the Leggy Mambos’s entourage of friends and supporters, who joked about the game being a formality for their side. Mambos’s previous run of 80-some games unbeaten had added a sheen of arrogance and self-belief that all the best teams seem to have. “We were just there to see how things went,” said James.
Mambos walked the talk, tying Eastleigh in knots with their quick passing. With his long white hair and beard, Eastleigh goalkeeper Ross Everton looks like a cross between Santa Claus and Chuck Norris. He was in no mood to give out presents; blocking a succession of powerful strikes to keep Eastleigh in the match. The concentration required to keep Mambos at bay left Eastleigh tired when they finally got the ball. James tried to rectify this, making himself continually available for his teammates. Mambos took matters into their own hands as Vic Vaines bundled James over on the halfway line to cries of friggin’ hell from Eastleigh’s bench. When James later returned the favor, his opponent declined the offer of a handshake in preference of a hard stare.
Mambos enjoyed much controlled possession of the ball, so it came as a surprise when they misplaced a pass across the face of their own goal. Eastleigh striker Martin Gallop intercepted and found himself one-on-one with the goalkeeper. It takes a certain degree of discipline to maintain walking pace when clean through on goal, but that’s what Gallop did, feigning a shot to trigger the reflexes of the ’keeper, who attempted to save a shot that never came. Gallop took another step and chipped over the goalkeeper and into the net. It was enough for Eastleigh to be crowned English over 60 walking football English champions.
The win felt like a big deal — and it was. England walking football manager Stuart Langworthy had watched the game. For James, the win meant recognition at a higher level.
B y 2018, James was selected for the first international game of walking football. From an initial 22 he was among the 10 chosen for England’s over 60 squad for the match against Italy. Brighton’s Amex Stadium was the venue. James emerged from the tunnel, kissing the three lions crest on the chest of his red England jersey, before joining his teammates to belt out a rendition of God Save the Queen. “It’s like a dream,” said James. “You can’t explain it until you’re there.”
Representing England marked the pinnacle of a footballing life he assumed had peaked when he’d been offered that apprenticeship with Southampton. He has lived with the consequences of his decision to turn them down. In the past, they manifested while watching Southampton play, as friends would laud the performance of the latest hot prospect. James couldn’t tell them he’d been a better player than whoever’s praises they were singing — they’d just think he was unwell.
He’d been left to bite his lip and speculate alone on how his life may have turned out if his decision had been different. But things were different now, out on the field in an England jersey. James’s game was about getting on the ball, but that wasn’t always straightforward. “The Italians were very clever,” says James. “They did step-overs to draw us into committing fouls.” The referee warned him twice for being too physical. His third reprimand earned him a blue card and a two-minute stay in the sin bin. The punishment didn’t detract James from his passing game; England won three-nil. Having had a taste of international football James now wanted more.
James further cemented his England place in 2019, scoring in the 11-nil win away to Gibraltar. March saw England take on Wales, indoors at St George’s Park, Burton upon Trent, where Gareth Southgate’s England team prepare. The facilities were off the charts.
England picked a first team and a shadow squad. Any disappointment James had in being named in the latter was tempered by being given the captain’s armband. He believed he’d given his country the lead, only to have the referee bring the play back for an earlier Welsh infringement. He tried explaining the situation to the referee, who didn’t listen. Still, England’s shadow team won 3–1. Their first team counterparts beat Wales 5–3.
April saw another England first team game against Italy. James began eyeing up Milanese hotels — while the over 60s were England internationals, a lack of major sponsors meant the players traveled on their own ticket. His search for accommodation was brought to a halt by an email from England management. There would be no trip to Italy for James Trant. The manager wanted to try other players for this game. It made sense. The Euros was less than two months away, so why not widen the pool of players when every day someone new and potentially useful turned sixty?
He wrote a response voicing his disappointment, careful to do so in a tone that wouldn’t be deemed negative. Later, he wondered if that had been a mistake, that in his politeness he had unintentionally written his retirement from international football. If somebody reacted politely to being dropped once, they could be dropped again, without the fuss and histrionics managers can do without.
The Italy game was streamed online. James watched from the comfort of his home. Italy had taken on an air of professionalism, slowing the game down at every opportunity, demonstrating the defensive resolve their national team has been renowned for over the years. And rumor had it they were being paid two-thousand Euros per player.
England were unable to convert any of their thirty efforts at goal, losing one-nil. Things weren’t much better for James. The week had begun with doubts cast over his England place, and now a simple back-heel at Eastleigh’s session caused a sharp pain in his hamstring. If he couldn’t use his heel to shift the ball without causing discomfort it seemed unrealistic his body would hold up for the entirety of the trial for the Euros. He had a month to get himself right.
The trial was in Gloucester at the end of May. Twenty players were vying for 10 places in the squad. Had the manager already made up his mind on who he would take to the Euros? The possibility ran through James’s mind.
Vic Vaines had quit international football the week before, aged 67, due to injury. Others continued to defy their years. James wanted what Graham Colley was taking. Colley was 67 and went about his England duty with calm precision, allowing his football brain do the work, no doubt helped by more than a decade spent as a professional footballer for Nottingham Forest and Scunthorpe.
James wanted to follow suit. Among better players in the international set up he would be required to cover less ground. His remit had been to keep the ball, find space, repeat. The challenge was doing this over the course of two hours despite not having played properly for six weeks. James was rusty. No amount of physio trips and stretching sessions could stop the growing doubts he had about getting through the day’s play. There were times he was relieved to have packed in at 28: “If I hadn’t stopped playing then I’d probably have two new hips by now,” he says. Yet his more than thirty years’ rest from football hadn’t preserved his body from injury.
The morning of the trial, he woke up with stiffness in his hamstring. The facilities then had influence over the rest of the day. With one changing room not big enough for all 20 to squeeze into, the first team and shadow squads changed separately. Trials are tense at the best of times, but this separation created a siege mentality: them against us. Two of the ensuing games were between the squads. Emotions spilled over. With the score tied, a first-teamer betrayed no doubt what many were thinking when he bellowed out, “I’m not losing to this lot.”
The manager tried to get everyone to turn it down a notch. This was, of course, impossible with the carrot of representing your country in an international tournament dangling in front of each player. The same player grabbed James’s arm, preventing him from moving towards goal. No foul was given. By now, his competitive instincts kicked in. Guided by adrenalin, he moved past an opponent, when bang — the hamstring was gone. The game continued as James limped off the pitch alone, his dream in tatters.
H e tried being philosophical, taking stock of the journey he’d been on. But when describing the events that led to his latest injury his voice trailed off. “There’s no way I’ll get selected now,” he admitted. It hurt. Deep down he knew he hadn’t been fully fit for a long time. He also knew no good would come from moping, so the following day he went to support his Eastleigh colleagues win 3–1 at Portsmouth in the first round of the Nationals. It felt good to see the lads.
A week after the trial James was on his hands and knees, tending to the weeds in his vegetable patch of runner beans, mange tout, carrots, and more lettuce than he knew what to do with. The peace was disturbed by a telephone call. The digital display showed it was England manager Stuart Langworthy calling. What does he want? James wondered.
England had increased the size of the squad to 12 — “Would you like to play?” The manager asked.
“Of course,” said James.
Given that the competition was being played over the course of a whole day it made sense for the squad to be increased. Still, he was shocked. The manager had watched him limp off injured in the trial. Was it fair he was going? James told him he didn’t mind not playing — he was happy to be a part of the squad.
“You’ll play.” Came the response.
Chesterfield’s Proact Stadium was the venue for the Walking Football European Nations Cup, a nod to the birthplace of the game. Although the competition had been threatened by other countries pulling out. France and the Netherlands were originally rumoured to be joining England, Italy and Wales. But although walking football was played in those countries, they were more geared to club football, and lacked the structure to piece together national sides.
Scotland declined the invitation. They didn’t recognize it as an official tournament. They didn’t agree with the rules either. They preferred to play three touch, so as to minimize tackling, and had stricter rules on running. If a team was caught doing so three times over the course of a game they automatically conceded a penalty kick.
The show had to go on; those playing now were paving the way for the future. And James Trant had work to do if he was to be more than a glorified mascot. He played on the Thursday at Eastleigh. Again, he felt a little pull in his hamstring. The 10 different exercises he’d been given to stretch it out weren’t quite doing the trick. It worried him.
“My fitness isn’t where it should be,” he said. He didn’t know what to do — doctors would suggest rest, but rest wasn’t an option. The physio suggested cryotherapy; exposure to extreme cold was meant to encourage blood circulation and reduce pain and muscle stress. James booked himself an appointment at a lab on the south coast. He did the recommended three minutes in the chamber, first in minus 65 Celsius, then minus 135 Celsius.
James felt he deserved to go to the Euros. “I know I can do it,” he said. “It’s just a matter of the leg holding up — and I think it will.” Hope wasn’t a process, but he had little else left. While he may have lost a little faith in himself, his manager had not.
James checked into his hotel on the Saturday. When he woke the next morning, he felt stiffness in the hamstring. In the changing room the England kit was laid out and folded immaculately. James wore the number 10, along with blue neoprene strapping to support his thigh. Wales, Italy and England were to play each other once, with the two top contesting a final. The pitch had been re-laid, and it was like a carpet.
England beat Wales two-nil. They were already one up against Italy when James set up England’s second and decisive goal. Italy and Wales finished level on points and goal difference, and so had to be separated by the blue card rule. Italy’s better disciplinary record was enough to put them in the final.
James started the final on the bench. He paced the touchline while studying the game. It was tight. The one-nil lead England took into half-time felt insufficient, given they’d hit the post and had a goal disallowed. Italy equalized early in the second, smashing in a free-kick. The goal-scorer demonstrated he was more than capable of speed, sprinting up the touchline to high-five the management and subs.
Then James was brought on. When the ball was dead, he remained alive, finding pockets of space in the attacking third. England got a free kick on the right, James ghosted past his man into an unmarked position, square of the ball. He took on the pass first time, swung with his left — and missed. The crowd groaned. It had been a good opportunity.
England were patient, passing backwards when necessary. On one occasion, this gave their left midfielder some space to jink past his marker. Once again, James had taken up a good position square of the ball. This time he made sure to take a touch with his right, then shot low with his left. The Italian goalkeeper’s efforts couldn’t stop the ball in its hurry to reach the back of the net. James disappeared under the embrace of his teammates. “It was such a release of tension,” he said. England scored a third before the final whistle. England were European Champions.
That evening, all three teams went for dinner. They ate, drank, sang and spoke about the bond the of camaraderie team sport provides. BBC Radio Solent later interviewed James about the win, playing Three Lions (It’s Coming Home) over part of the conversation. James laughed, joking that his goal took a deflection. The presenter told James he could hear the pleasure in his voice talking about the game. James admitted that recent events were still sinking in: “I need pinching to make sure I’m not dreaming,” he said.
A week after the Euros James was back at Eastleigh. He wore a pink Real Madrid away jersey with number 10 and James printed on the back, signifying the chosen name Colombian international James Rodríguez prefers to be known by. He laughed, offered a hand to fallen teammates, placed a shot into the bottom corner from a tight angle, periodically stretched his hamstring and berated himself having lost his marker to fire over the crossbar.
Afterward, he unzipped his sports holdall and pulled out his winning medal, letting the blue thread it hung on swing from his fingers like a pendulum. For a second or two he stood transfixed, as if he was still processing his status as a European Champion for England. His reverie was broken by the call for lunch — there was another club tournament coming up, and it required some discussion. James Trant’s success with England wasn’t the end of this journey, it was just the start. ⧫
Thanks to James Trant and Ian Ritchie from Eastleigh Walking Football Club, Judith Langworthy (photography), Alan Powell and The Walking Football Association (video footage), Taisia Eltsina (image design).
Note: Since writing this story Eastleigh Walking Football Club’s Norman Pendlebury and Boyd Hilton passed away. We’d like to send our condolences to their families.
