Musings from the Shitter – Volume Eight

The Fight

Football’s not a hobby.
It’s a fucking escape.

At our age, just getting to the game feels like a win.
Jobs. Kids. Partners. Hangovers. Bills.
Vacuum the house. Walk the dog. Argue over breakfast.
Then pull on the shirt like it still fits the same way it did ten years ago.

You warm up with creaking joints and...quiet prayers.
The ball feels heavy.
Your lungs betray you after fifteen minutes.
But you’re out there.
You showed up.

And then the whistle goes.

And everything else drops away.
For 90 minutes, it’s a fight.
You chase, hack, scream, bleed, breathe.
Your body hates you. Your brain thanks you.
You forget the week.
Forget the shit.

There’s no therapy like it.
And it costs less than a counsellor.

It’s not about skill anymore...it’s survival.
It’s pride.
It’s proving something to no one in particular.

And when it’s over, you’re wrecked.
Bent over. Legs screaming.
But smiling...maybe.
If the result went your way.
If the stories were worth it.

You stand next to your people 
not warriors anymore.
Just humans.
Eating sausages and beige garbage like it's the Last Supper.
Talking shit.
Laughing at bruises.
Planning for next week like our bodies will let us.

I won a league once.

Best thing I’ve done on a pitch.
Hard season.
Mates I’d go to war for.
Every week a scrap, and somehow we came out on top.

No parade.
No big speech.
Just beers in the car park and the kind of silence that only comes after you’ve earned it.

I buried the medal.

Right there.
On the pitch we won it on.
Middle of the field.
Dug a hole and dropped it in.

Didn’t tell anyone.
Didn’t need to.
That was for me.
For the ghosts.
For the bruises and the busted ribs and the nights I drove home in silence thinking, "fuck, we really did that".

I don’t visit the spot.
I know it’s there.
That’s enough.

We keep showing up.
Keep running ourselves into the dirt.
Keep pretending we’ve still got one more good season left.

And maybe we don’t.
But maybe we just need to believe we do.

Because one day we’ll stop playing.
And all we’ll have are the stories.

And that’s something.

That’s everything.

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