Playing football in the over 35's last night, a new team turned up who were considerably quicker and slimmer than all the regulars. "What do you guys do?" "We're students" "Right. How old are you?" "Between 20 and 22." "You do realise it's over 35's only tonight?" "No, nobody said anything!" "So you didn't wonder why all the other teams are quite slow and overweight?" "Errr, never really thought about it!" Well no, you probably didn't as you were zipping past us doing little triangles at lightning speed. I then realised I was in the middle-aged parallel universe equivalent of the Under 11's tournament where one team fielded several players who were at least a foot taller than everyone else and had moustaches. "You can see their birth certificates mate, they're nine."
You ought to have done it the proper Russian way and had an organised ruck, in the snow, afterwards. You’d have won that one.
Speaking of middle aged... I was walking around the local cricket pitch with the dog and my son this week. I was explaining to him that he needs to know how to fall and that hitting the deck isn't a problem if you know how to (he's not really into sport and so falls face first, on one occasion landing him in hospital). I talked to him about how cricketers dive for catches and footballers are always on the floor, they just twist, roll and slide. I illustrated all this by diving to my left, saving an imaginary shot and landing on the grass. F............! All I can say is I've got a lot less resilient in the twenty five years since I played regularly. I had to pick myself up off the floor and pretend all was fine so as not to ruin my demonstration. Damn getting old.
