Musings From The Shitter Volume Ten

A Day in the Life (Not Quite a Footballer)

The day starts like most Saturdays I don’t have to bleed — brain still thinks it's game day, but the body knows it’s been spared. No tightening boots. No taping up aging joints. No captain’s armband like a noose. Just stillness. And for once, peace.

Morning kicks off with shovels and buckets — three loads of river sand to line the chicken coop. Glamorous shit. Literal shit, really. But grounding. I’ve learned to trust dirt under fingernails more than medals. It doesn’t lie.

Walking the dog, the body feels good. Suspiciously good. Like it knows it won’t be thrown into battle. No barking instructions from my own mouth. No saving teammates from themselves. Just step after step after step. The silence in my head isn’t empty — it’s earned.

I pack the Koro Lounge with the essentials: three joints, two Red Bulls, a donut with the texture of old carpet, and an extra lighter because lighters have a way of disappearing when you need them most. No boots. No tape. Just the unofficial uniform of someone off the clock but still showing up.

First pickup is limping. Says he ripped his calf skateboarding. The fun place, he calls it. I believe him. Says he can still play. Of course he does. That’s how we’re wired — all pride, no caution. But his body’s flashing the red lights. Screaming sit the fuck down. Torn muscle. Lightning pain. He knows it. We both do. But saying it out loud makes it real, and we don’t do that easily.

Two more climb in. Fringe players. Not quite team, not quite not. But today’s their day. They zip up fresh jackets and try not to smile too wide. First-timers pretending they’ve been here before. They haven’t. I love that. Nervous. Proud. Hungrier than anyone on the pitch. They’d chew glass to stay on the team sheet.

The striker’s in too. Newish. Talented. Still figuring out where he fits in the tribe. He’s quiet. Focused. A little unsure. But you can feel the engine humming under the hood.

Half-time ritual — a joint stashed behind the mound like treasure. We light up while the others catch their breath. Smoke’s a lie. It hides nothing. The torn calf guy leans on a stick he found while pissing in the bushes. Looks like Moses if Moses had weak ankles and a habit of turning up injured.

The striker scores four. Clean, ruthless, beautiful goals. He rolls joints like he strikes balls — tight, elegant, no waste. Some people just get it. He gets it.

I’m still not playing. Still watching. But not from a distance. I’m in it — just not being broken by it.

On the ride home, one of the newbies cramps so hard he nearly chews through the seatbelt. The other, shotgun as always, looks over at me and says, “Match sore.”

I nod. Say nothing. But inside, I’m buzzing. Five years ago, he thought he’d never play again. Told me as much. But I knew. I saw it. I just didn’t know it’d look like this — not polished, not heroic, just real. Just belief, and three joints, and dumb stubborn hope pulling a man back into his body.

I’m not quite a footballer. Not quite a spectator.

I’m the guy who sees the beauty in the wreckage.

And later that night, around a tired table with drinks that lost their kick hours ago, — powder cut and snorted with a casualness that makes your stomach turn. I look around at the players — my people — chasing goals on the field and demons off it.

And I realize something I didn’t expect.

I’m glad I didn’t play.