For a moment I felt just like Lampard (From Bucks Free Press)

For a moment I felt just like Lampard

10:46am Saturday 3rd July 2010 in

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I WAS gutted like the rest of you by the sorry England World Cup defeat at the hands of Germany. But, unlike most of you, I did have a very good footballing reason to celebrate on that very same day.

An hour or so before the England match, I was in a team of near-geriatrics who triumphed 3-1 against a side of strapping teenage players.

We played for 40 minutes in the sweltering sun at Widmer End United’s fun day, and came out on top against a shocked group of lads whom we’d challenged to a match.

To put it in perspective, the average age of our team was probably over 40 and our goalkeeper was in his 60s. The opposition, all accomplished players, must have been aged about 18-years-old.

I was in defence and even managed a few half decent tackles. I amazed myself by playing one superb crossfield 30 yard pass straight into the path of our winger… who sadly promptly fell over as he ran for the ball.

But the final result was one of my biggest-ever sporting triumphs, and I was still buzzing about it hours later even after Fabio and his inept team had tried to take the gloss off it by getting thrashed 4-1.

The team I played in is basically a group of dads who got together after watching our sons and daughters play every week.

We decided to retake up the game ourselves, and now meet weekly at various sports halls and pitches.

The games are highly competitive and most end with someone getting injured. Once I thought one of the dads had been actually killed by a ferocious shot which left him lying on the ground gasping for air.

I’ve been told off numerous times for my use of elbows, and even nicknamed ‘chopper’ as a result. It’s all very unfair, as is the fact that I am regularly picked last when the teams are decided at the beginning.

This is a source of intense irritation because it takes me back to my depressing schooldays. I recall our games teacher in primary school in London insisted on stopping when he had equally-matched teams of around 11-a-side. And he then sent the rubbish kids, including me, off on our own with a couple of sticks for goalposts and no direct adult supervision.

We were either too fat, too awkward or too short-sighted to compete with the cream and so we wasted our time in sports lessons and never progressed.

As a result, I was 16 when I scored my very first goal in a games lesson. No one had ever shown me how to run with the ball, but on this occasion I decided to try to just dribble it and see what would happen. Everyone stood aside in shock and I scored. But in my elation, I was left ruing the fact that I’d wasted the best part of the previous decade because no one had thought to try to coach me. These days, I am glad to say it is very different.

There are very good training sessions for children, including the ones offered by Wycombe Wanderers. I take my own son to them and they are fabulous because they encourage the less talented, as well as the gifted players.

I’ve made up for my lost youth by taking my lad to numerous soccer tournaments and various matches, but until a few months ago, I hadn’t played in years.

Now we’re at it every week, and I’ve shocked the neighbours by returning home late at night dressed in football shorts.

I’m still pretty incompetent, but that’s down to natural lack of skill and not age. My fellow geriatric players would possibly be shocked to learn I’m probably now better than I have ever been.

Yet, I still get picked last. I’m still the speccy kid (even though I put my lenses in) who neither captain really wants. This Monday night, however, I scored a brilliant goal after chipping the ball into the corner right over the keeper’s head from the edge of the box.

But, as my soccer luck typically always goes, the goal was disallowed for a minor infringement. For a moment, I felt just like Frank Lampard.

I would say playing the game again has made me fitter, but I didn’t feel that way on Tuesday morning when I hobbled down the stairs with a dodgy right knee and a gammy left ankle.

Nevertheless, my late-found success in this sport has put everything in perspective. England’s hammering did upset me, but not half as much as it would have done previously.

It’s worth realising that football is a game for everyone and not just the feted and over-rated millionaires who made a mess of it for Queen and country on Sunday.

*Joke of the week came on BBC local radio yesterday: What’s the difference between the England team and a tea bag. Answer – the tea bag stays in the cup longer.