YOUNG AT HEART – WELL SOME OF US!
PEOPLE used to say that policemen were getting younger, which was of course little more than a terrifying portent of their own advancing years. The same is true of footballers, and it’s a sobering moment in a young fan’s life when a player takes to the field who has the temerity to have been born at a later date than you. It happened to me when Aidan Newhouse made his Chester City debut at Bury’s Gigg Lane at the tender age of 15, openly flaunting his youth in front of us embittered late teens. But as the seasons pass, you go from shouting encouragement to grown men to bellowing at young kids of a similar age. Eventually the entire squad is younger than you, followed depressingly by the manager, and even the stadium. After that, you’re simply trying to get as many seasons under your belt as you can before your body fails. Footballers are definitely getting younger though, as I discovered to my mild embarrassment at the recent National Game Awards at Stamford Bridge. Arriving drenched, I held the lift open with my umbrella to let a couple of young shavers in, presuming them to be waiters or bar staff. Joining the throng, I pressed the flesh with the great and good of The NLP, none of whom incidentally appears to boast a byline photo taken this decade, a haunted gallery of Dorian Grays in reverse. Fast forward an hour or so, and the two youngsters from the lift aren’t in fact picking up plates or glasses, they’re picking up awards. My howler is even more shameful given that it was barely a month since I was hurling abuse at one of them on the rare occasion that he touched the ball. In my defence, on the evening in question he was bedecked head to toe in electric salmon and had his back to me.
Gentleman
Goalkeeper Of The Year, Lincoln’s Paul Farman – for it is he – and Player Of The Year, teammate Alex Woodyard, were happy to join us in the pub afterwards and provide in-depth analysis of the game in question, right down to a specific save. What access. That said, no details were forthcoming of the squad’s recent holiday, paid for by the Lincoln chairman. Evidently, what happens in Benidorm stays in Benidorm. But if their manager Danny Cowley is reading this, they seemed model professionals, having a quick pint with us and then leaving during daylight hours, unlike a section of The NLP staff. Cowley himself was an absolute gentleman at the awards do, despite also being the subject of my ire on that frustrating night at Sincil Bank. Happy to chat with all and sundry, he expressed admiration for Chester’s young defender Sam Hughes as well as manager Jon McCarthy, despite an extended finger-wagging session between the pair in the dying stages of Lincoln’s 1-0 win, accompanied by a volley of obscenities from yours truly. Another goalkeeper who I failed to recognise was recently retired Altrincham stopper Stuart Coburn, who also joined us in the pub, where he was in little danger of being asked for ID. A true legend of the Non-League game, nobody could accuse him of getting younger. His memory is fully intact however, and he took great pleasure in reminding me how he ruined my Christmas a few seasons ago when Alty recorded back-to-back victories over Chester on both Boxing Day and New Year’s Day. Thanks for that. Regarding my inability to recognise footballers, I was going to offer the excuse that I am so engrossed in the game that I rarely notice opposition players. Then I remembered an end-of-season do during which I asked then Chester captain Paul Carden what he did, despite having just watched him play. Perhaps it’s down to the fact that at this level you rarely see players out of full kit, or indeed as the relatively normal young blokes that most of them are. It is of course only a game, and what is said in the heat of the moment can be usually be laughed off over a pint or two. Unless they play for Wrexham. That’s permanent.