Is this the end? Confessions of an aged footballer.

It’s that time of the year when I am forced to confront my footballing mortality. Actually, that is probably overstating things. My footballing life died a long time ago. I’m not so much in the twilight of my footballing life as been plunged into its full darkness.

To explain. Last Saturday was the last game of another long season. The Old Ignatians E Team travelled down to Port Elliot to play the Southern Breakers. We were smashed. To be honest I am not even sure what the final score was. There is a chance it was under double figures. And we didn’t trouble the scorers either. I did manage to have one shot, but that was last seen heading towards Horseshoe Bay,

Our team is populated mainly by old folk. I am 53 and not the oldest. The venerable and unstoppable Craig Walker holds that title. The Breakers were, shall we say, on the young side. I suspect most of them weren’t born when Mr Walker and I first played together in 2003.

And at 53 I am now so slow that I couldn’t even get close enough to most of them to give them a good kicking. And I tried. That’s the worst thing about being an aged player. Not the inability to kick better players. The slowness.

Trying to run these days is like wading through quicksand. Anyone watching from the sidelines would think someone had hit the pause button as soon as I ‘spring’ into action.

The brain mostly still works. I can see where I should be, but the destination never quite arrives. If the ball by some miracle lands at my feet I can still more or less direct it somewhere else. Even better is a free kick or a corner. The game has stopped, no one can take the ball off me, I can take a breath, and still deliver a mean inswinger.

So, why still do it? There’s also the pain factor. It hurts to play. At various times this year it’s been right ankle, right knee, back, abdomen and a new one in the shoulder. And that doesn’t include the lungs. Ninety minutes is a long time to be out there.

So, why? It’s hard to explain. I love the game. I always have since being a young boy in Glasgow. One of my earliest memories is going to watch Celtic as a five-year-old. We lost that day, so that helped prepare me for a life of sporting disappointments.

I remember playing on icy Scottish pitches. Of going to watch my dad play every Saturday. Of coming to Australia and playing on grass for the first time.

So, even now, on the pitch, when I’m rubbish, slow, in pain and struggling for breath, I love being out there. Whatever else is on your mind disappears for a while. There’s also a moment in every game where you manage to pull out a pass, a shot, a goal that gives a reminder that you are not entirely useless. Then there is the enjoyment of playing with blokes you have known for a long time. Kitch, Danzo, Neil, Butter, Caruso.

But I’m 53. Which means last Saturday down at Port Elliot could have been my last time on a football pitch. Even as a sporting tragic, I know this can’t go on forever. I mean, 53 was hard enough. It’s hard to imagine 54 will be any easier. The game won’t miss me, but I’ll miss the game.

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On the reading front, it has been a little quiet. Did finish The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald’s ability to take you into a world that is now 100 years old is wonderful. I think I did read it back in school days or soon after, but I had forgotten, or didn’t appreciate at the time, how good it was. May have to revisit a few more old classics.