Theo Hobson has narrated this article for you to listen to.
I can tell when my life’s going OK. My stray thoughts are not about what a loser I am but about what a terrible footballer I am. Why didn’t I shoot when I had that chance? Why did I pass to the opposition? And, oh dear, I wonder how Diego’s knee is?
For almost a decade I’ve been playing football on Saturday mornings in a local park in London. For the first few years I was a fair-weather visitor, shy about it. I’m not much of a joiner and I don’t have much chat about the transfer window, so I felt awkward and almost stopped going. A couple of others were middle-aged and rusty like me, so they probably didn’t really want another old guy getting in the way. But I gradually felt that they didn’t mind me being there, that I was a valid part of the mix.
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