Musings from the Shitter – Volume One

Post-match reflections from the only room in the house where I get five minutes to myself

I don’t really know what this is. Maybe it’s a brain-dump. Maybe it’s a slow exhale after ninety minutes of chaos and calf cramps. Maybe it’s just me, hiding in the only room in the house with a lock on the door—sitting on the toilet, not necessarily doing anything, just… thinking. Reflecting. Sometimes writing. Welcome to Musings from the Shitter.

Every week, after the boots are peeled off and the socks come away like bandages, I disappear. The game is over, the laughter's still echoing from the changing room, and someone’s usually asking where I’ve gone. I’ve gone here. This is my ritual. My chapel. My post-game temple where thoughts are louder than the flush and occasionally more profound than whatever just passed through my colon...though, honestly, that’s up for debate.

I play football for Feilding United. That name might not mean much to most people, but to me, it means everything. Community. Whanau. Chaos. Therapy. It's the one place where I don’t have to be a version of myself...I just am. No filters. No expectations. Just boots, banter, and the bruises that remind you you're still in the fight.

This year, more than any other, my body has started whispering things I don’t want to hear. Tightness in the hamstrings. A knee that doesn’t quite trust the turn. The quiet voice that says, “Any day now, this could be your last game.” And that voice...that bastard...has got me thinking. Not just about football, but about what this all means.

And what it means...well, it keeps changing.

Take the team. Once upon a time, I called them teammates. Footballers. A band of brothers. All true. Still is. But now? I see them as something more.

I see them as individuals. Living, breathing skin suits, stitched together with stories, battles, families, fears. And more and more, I see them as teachers.

There’s the quiet one. Doesn’t say much. Might even come off cold. But he turns up. Every damn week. No drama, no showboating. Just there. Reliable. And through him, I’m reminded that showing up is a kind of magic we underestimate.

Then there’s the wild one. Energy like a Labrador on Red Bull. Talks too much, runs like a madman, feels everything. He reminds me it’s okay to still care. To be passionate. To wear your heart in your sock and kick with it.

The young one—fresh boots, fresher lungs. Still figuring it out, but watching everything. Asking questions, respecting the game and the people in it. He teaches me humility. Reminds me that we all started wide-eyed, trying to earn our stripes.

There’s the joker. Every team’s got one. He’s got a one-liner for every mistake, a chirp for every pass gone sideways. Might not say much about his personal life, but you’d never know he’s carrying anything. Humour as Armour. He keeps things light, which somehow makes the heavy stuff easier to carry.

Then there’s the philosopher. Quiet, but when he speaks, everyone listens. Doesn’t force wisdom, just lets it drop casually between conversations about studs and shin pads. He reminds me that life is always bigger than the game, even if the game feels like life.

There’s the workhorse. Not flashy. Not loud. Just grafts. Covers every blade of grass. Tracks back, cleans up, keeps us honest. The kind of player who makes you play harder just by existing. From him, I get discipline—and the reminder that not everything that matters makes the highlight reel.

There’s the late arriver. Always rushing in last minute, boot bag half-zipped, still tying laces during the warm-up. But once he’s on, he gives everything. Somehow still ends up covered in mud, bleeding, smiling. He reminds me that it’s not about how you start. It’s about showing up—even if you’re five minutes late with your shirt inside out.

And the caretaker. Not the coach. Not the captain. Just the one who checks in. Asks how your week’s been. Tells you when you’re limping funny. Organise's the team after match drink location or sends a message when someone doesn’t show up. The emotional glue. Reminds me that being part of a team is about more than the game.

Then there’s the laughter crew...those who’ve mastered the art of finding joy in the rubble. They joke after losses. They laugh when they should probably be stretching. They show me that sometimes the most sacred thing about this game is the way it lets you forget the rest of your life for just a little while...hell, most of them...teach me how to laugh. Even after a shit game. Even when the knees hurt and the scoreboard isn’t kind. They know how to pull joy from the wreckage. That’s a skill.

And then…there are the old heads.

The legends. The scarred veterans. The ones I used to see as competition...gatekeepers I had to beat to earn my place. Now? I see them for what they are: proof.

Proof that you don’t stop playing when you get old. You get old because you stop playing.

They laugh like schoolboys. Argue like uncles at Christmas. They fight for throw-ins like they matter...and maybe they do. But underneath it all, there’s this beautiful defiance. They’re not playing to prove they’ve still got it. They’re playing to prove to death that it hasn’t won yet. That in spite of the stiff backs, the aching knees, the early bedtimes...fun still wins.

And here’s the thing: these roles? They’re not fixed. They shift. Week to week...One day you’re the workhorse, the next you’re the joker, covering for someone else’s silence. The young ones grow into the old heads. The loud ones go quiet. The caretakers have their moments of needing care.

We carry each other. Without even realising it.

And that’s the beauty of it all. These aren’t just roles—they’re reminders. That on any given Saturday, you might be someone’s teacher without knowing it. You might be someone’s lifeline just by passing them the ball and asking how their week was. You don’t need a title. You just need to be there.

Because that’s what teams really are—not perfect systems, not strategy boards, but a collection of shifting souls, trying their best, together.

And maybe that’s the point of all this. Not to win leagues or prove something to strangers on the sidelines. But to keep playing. Keep showing up. Keep laughing. Keep being alive in the most human way we know how.

This is what I think about, sitting on the toilet after a Saturday game. Until one of the girls bangs on the door and yells, “Hurry up! You’ve been in there for ages!”

If only they knew.