UK Edition
Paolo Maldini, Ryan Giggs, Tony Hibbert: football has made something of a virtue out of being a resolutely one-club man, in spite of an era when the grass is perpetually greener - or at least richer - on the other side.
But, at the deepest of football’s many strata, the concept of a one-club man is almost completely alien. During a quiet moment on a slow-moving train one Monday morning, hamstrings still groaning from 90 minutes of deeply amateur football the day before, I suddenly asked myself: after all these years, just how many Sunday league clubs have I played for? The answer, after some near-heroic racking of the brain, was 16.
Compared to the most notable professional journeymen - the 29-club Trevor Benjamin, say, or emergency goalkeeper John Burridge and his 21 transfers in the space of four years in the mid-1990s - the art of being a Sunday league ringer is even less glamorous. Unless, of course, you’re “Gary Goals”, a mysterious figure who once fly-posted his services all over east London, complete with his mobile number, the charming promise of “I do all types of goals” and the frankly superb micro-boast that he had once “played against Wayne Rooney’s cousin”. Otherwise, it’s a reliable conveyor belt of reluctant left-backs, dragged-along siblings and - the ultimate gamble - someone’s new flatmate.
There is a surprisingly elaborate transfer system that allows the grassroots journeyman to indulge his peripatetic obsession. From a jungle of online classified adverts, The Ship FC (your correspondent’s tenth club: 85 games, 1 goal) negotiated such temporary signings as Luis Ponce, a 5ft 2in Ecuadorian goalkeeper, and Brazilian winger Jerrell, complete with electronic tag, who claimed to be Neymar’s cousin but had to leave five minutes early to complete his community service.
These exotic deals had to be negotiated from start to finish by my brother - player, manager, club secretary, chief scout, match reporter and top goalscorer - somewhere between the loves and inconveniences of his actual life.
There’s something about making one’s lonely arrival as the new signing for “Boca Seniors” (12 games, 10 goals) or “Ocean Rangers” (2 games, no goals, one groin strain, one abysmal performance as linesman) that feels like speed dating. You poke your head round the dressing room door to a crowd of unfamiliar, blank faces, you learn and forget a dozen new names in the space of a minute, and then start quietly undressing. All after lying about your age, because it turns out you’re actually five years too young to be playing for a veterans’ league team after all.
As a chronic debutant, even the pre-match warm-up - traditionally a perfunctory jog across the pitch followed by gathering in a vague circular formation for some wayward passing - takes on some unusual pressure. Your first touch finds itself under more scrutiny than a Ballon d’Or contender’s, as 10 amateur footballers instantly judge the competence of whichever complete stranger is making up the numbers this week. This regular test of nerves and left foot is what keeps the average Sunday league journeyman on his toes.
For a while, the novelty of wearing a different kit and having a new central-defensive partner each week is quite refreshing. After that, the reality sinks in that every Sunday league match is essentially the same: 4-4-2, “Rob, you just sit”, “Straight in boys, yeah?”, 3-0 down after 20 minutes, “Still 0-0, lads!”, a foul throw, an exasperated half-time lecture from the only player that genuinely cares, a 14-man brawl with precisely zero punches thrown, one sweaty pile of kit and, finally, “anyone driving towards Wimbledon?”
So, you might be asking at this point, why bother? After 28 seasons, approximately 400 games, an 11-year personal goal drought, a thousand rolls of ankle tape and a colourful range of team names that include Angels, Casuals and Falcons, there isn’t an easy answer.
But, with the under-funded and underappreciated grassroots game falling deeper into decay, the journeyman continues to provide a mutually beneficial service. As long as you can pick me up from the station on the way there.
16 clubs, Neymar's cousin and an 11-year goal drought: Confessions of a Sunday league football journeyman