You can tell the importance of a knockout tournament by the number of words that precede the word “Cup”. The fewer, the more important. The World Cup. One word. World. On Saturday, my team Polytechnic 4s take on Winchmore Hill 5s in the final of The Institute of Sport, Exercise & Health Minor Cup – the word “Minor” really hammering home its insignificance.
There will be more players than supporters. There will be rolling subs. There will be linesmen (a luxury at this level). There won’t be, however, any mind games – but that’s mainly because we don’t even have a manager to have the mind games.
And there will be, for me as for so many other captains around the country at this time of the year, countless of dilemmas before kick-off. Stick with 4-4-2, or pack the midfield? How to cope without my first-choice centre-backs (a Mexican holiday and a tax accounting job in Jordan have put paid to their services)? Do I risk Jay with his broken ribs? And should I really have let Will wash the kit this week when he never arrives more than five minutes before kick-off?
Last night at 2am I was analysing how terribly I played at Parkonians last Saturday and worrying about who I’m going to leave on the bench for the final – when surely I should be kept awake by more pressing matters: the Middle East, the point of voting Green, deciding whether to propose this summer, or if I’ll ever be competent enough to have kids.
Twelve years into my Poly career, and my love for 11-a-side amateur football is as strong as ever. And without wanting to be cliched – it’s the people: your team-mates, your opponents, the officials, that make it, and make the stories that stick with you.
From Femi – an old strike partner, who presumed I had cramp when actually I’d done all the ligaments in my left ankle (that was a stretch I didn’t need) – to the referee who once threatened to book me for “stimulation”, or the Kew midfielder who during a debate over whether he’d elbowed one of my players announced: “Well I earn £250,000 a year so I’m fucking happy,” which didn’t seem to answer the question.
Or our left winger Ash, slipping 10 seconds into the game, going two-footed into their right-back, hitting his head on the floor, losing a contact lens and getting a migraine in the process, taking himself off, and straight home.
Given how long I’ve played the game, I should be better at dealing with confrontation. In one game against Actonians, I was kicked all over the place by a large eastern European, Sergio I think, to the point where I snapped. I turned to him, glared and shouted: “If you do that one more time, I will …” and then nothing. I desperately thought of what I’d do; the silence was deafening. It was the emptiest of threats. Eventually I just wandered off to try to flick on another throw-in.
Being kicked is one thing, but my strangest experience is altogether more disturbing. Coincidentally it’s where our final is this year, Carshalton – a neutral venue, which makes you feel a tiny bit like a professional footballer.
It was two seasons ago, midway through the first half of league a game away at their fourth team. As I bustled past their skipper, and I don’t know how to say this politely, he inserted one, or maybe two, fingers right up my bottom. I was confused. I know it’s good to experience new things but I just wasn’t prepared for this voyage of discovery.
“What are you doing?” I inquired. “You fucking love it mate,” was his carefully chosen response – as the game carried on. The ref, like most amateur refs, was just doing his own thing in the centre circle. “Let’s be clear,” I replied. “I really don’t.” And even if I had, it just wasn’t the place.
That experience is perhaps not the best way to extol the virtues of amateur football, but it is a difficult one to forget.
Sadly, figures from last year suggest that the numbers of those who sign up and play week in week out in organised 11-a-side leagues are falling, with many choosing five-a-side instead. In the past five years more than 2,000 teams have disbanded, and the number of regular 11-a-side players (aged 16 or over) since 2005 has gone down by around 180,000 and that is a great shame. Too often the discussion about grassroots is about unearthing the next England team, which is important, but it should also encompass all levels and all ages.
My club was founded in 1875. We have 12 sides. It costs around £53,000 a year for us to cover our costs (insert lazy comparison to weekly salary of reasonable Premier League player). Those costs are met solely by the players. Before petrol, beer and ankle tape I probably spend £400 a season. So it isn’t cheap – but I’ve found it one of the most rewarding experiences of my life, gaining friendships and experiencing the highs and lows that come with that.
Last year we lost one of our squad to cancer. A tough-tackling centre-back, who occasionally marauded forward without any warning. He’d played for years before I arrived, until his retirement two years ago. But the old boys stay with the squad – many others will be at the game on Saturday. At the funeral, there were 20 of us in Poly ties, one of his sons wore one as well, with the eulogies repeatedly mentioning his love for the club and the friends he’d made there. And as well as the sadness, came reflection, and it made me realise that I really hadn’t appreciated what a fundamental part of my life it had become.
Max Rushden is a dirty target man. He’s donated his fee to the charity Streetleague. He presents Soccer AM (Sky Sports/Sky One) Saturday mornings 10-12, and The Warm Up on Talksport, Sundays 11-1. Follow him here on Twitter
