The howling tackles, the incessant swearing and the post-match pints down the local pub are just a few reasons why Sunday League football is so entertaining.
As a young teenager, football used to be my passion, and I was eager to get in the garden everyday to practice. My hope was to one day score a world-class freekick and be applauded in front of a vast crowd with one of my teammates cinematically polishing my boots with his knuckles in celebration.
My parents always knew my love for the sport, and so when I was thirteen took me to trials for various local clubs. I remember how anxious I was before each trial; the sweaty palms, butterflies and the fear of failure like a bitter bile at the back of my throat. But, to my glee I was accepted into every club I trialled for, where the majority of the coaches compared me to the likes of Maradona and Pele.
I fitted into the team well; worshipped by most of my teammates who deemed me as their God. The season came soon enough, where I was the top scorer for the first 10 games, with 258 goals.
My goals where received with cheering from the parents of my team and vile cussing and angry comments from that of the opposition, with the occasional empty coffee cup or bacon bap denting me in the back of the head. I would retaliate to the hate by thrusting my waist to the opposing fans and giving them the fingers.
But on my 11th match came the fateful day. It was close to half time and I was celebrating my 38th goal when I felt a lamp to the back of the skull and fell to the floor.
I woke up 10 days later and was told I could never play football again. I was devastated. I decided to pursue a career in dog walking as a result.
