Big time

The day came. I dug out my shin pads, scraped two-year-old mud off my boots, and tried to remember my matchday Saturday routine. It came back to me soon enough: wake up with hangover and spend most of the morning on the loo or pacing up and down fretting about the forthcomings, whilst sending the odd hopeful text to others along the lines of: 'Are you sure it's not been postponed? It's rained for at least five minutes this morning'.

But I dragged myself down to the wonderful Horspath playing fields, and tentatively entered the changing rooms I knew so well. There was Sale's fat behind. There was the Wizard's shiny boots. And there I was, hopeful of a five minute cameo when Street were already six goals to the good. Alas, in true Street-style, it was not to be. I was soon told that we only had eleven players. Mozley, the bald idiot, was only going to turn up half way through the first half. I had to play.

It was only for 45 minutes, but God, I was crap. On top of my understandable tentativeness in the tackle was a total lack of any kind of fitness. I was parked out on the right wing - the best place for passengers. My first act was an ankle chop on their left back. I got about five touches, air kicked about a dozen passes, jumped out of three tackles, and generally didn't have a clue what I was doing.

Still, it was great to be out there, wearing my lucky number 5 shirt, the feel of mud and grass beneath my boots. I got subbed at half time, and the mighty Street sneaked a battling draw against the league leaders. What better welcome back to the Big Time?