04-09-2014, 17:34
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2014, 20:40 by Ska'dForLife-WBA.)
Brilliant idea, this, although I wonder if it's better off being a board for sporting nostalgia in general? Obviously that can encompass a thread or threads on our own experiences playing and supporting, but also just reminiscing about bygone sporting events and culture...
My own story about being a player? I was shite. Not enough pace to be a winger (despite the old man being a medal-winning distance runner), not enough eye for goal to be up front, not especially capable of beating a man unless luck was on my side, which ruled out central midfield; my "gifts" were half-decent reaction times which often saw me in goal, and being naturally left-footed, which made me a prime candidate for the standard just-stick-someone-there-and-hope-for-the-best position of left back. There, I was allowed to roam free in my very own realm, unshackled from the responsibilities of being any good, and required just to stick the boot in on anyone who strayed into my territory (and as far as I was concerned, that included my teammates).
The Glorious Day was a school match which was a stalemate at 1-1 with minutes to go. I got the ball off our keeper, who'd stopped booting them long - in a scandalous betrayal of the time-honoured English schoolboy tactics book - because our short-arse striker was losing every single aerial battle. So suddenly, I was required to play out from the back; to that end, I knocked a short ball to our central midfielder, and to my surprise, under pressure, he made it a one-two which beat their right winger and gave me a wide open flank to run at.
Oh yes. I'm going on an adventure.
I looked for our left winger to pass to, and he made a run towards the byeline, but their right back tracked him well so I carried on into the space the right back had left open. And then I was on the edge of the penalty area, still looking to pass but with no one open, so kept on motoring for goal, getting ready to place what would probably have been a wasteful shot, until their right centre-back came across and just hacked me down with a last-ditch challenge. A more blatant penalty you've never seen.
Did I want to take it? Did I f**k. But my teammates were going on the age-old lads' principle of "you won it, you take it", so I had to step up. My mate James told me to aim right and put my laces through it, so I did just that. Walloped it. Had enough time as my boot made contact to think that I'd spooned it and it was going a mile over the bar.
Nope. Top right-hand corner. Keeper nowhere near it. It was the winner.
It wasn't too long after that I announced my triumphant retirement from the world of sport to pursue far more healthy interests such as beer and pork pies, but The Glorious Day will always be there, and I suspect it'll never be bettered.
My own story about being a player? I was shite. Not enough pace to be a winger (despite the old man being a medal-winning distance runner), not enough eye for goal to be up front, not especially capable of beating a man unless luck was on my side, which ruled out central midfield; my "gifts" were half-decent reaction times which often saw me in goal, and being naturally left-footed, which made me a prime candidate for the standard just-stick-someone-there-and-hope-for-the-best position of left back. There, I was allowed to roam free in my very own realm, unshackled from the responsibilities of being any good, and required just to stick the boot in on anyone who strayed into my territory (and as far as I was concerned, that included my teammates).
The Glorious Day was a school match which was a stalemate at 1-1 with minutes to go. I got the ball off our keeper, who'd stopped booting them long - in a scandalous betrayal of the time-honoured English schoolboy tactics book - because our short-arse striker was losing every single aerial battle. So suddenly, I was required to play out from the back; to that end, I knocked a short ball to our central midfielder, and to my surprise, under pressure, he made it a one-two which beat their right winger and gave me a wide open flank to run at.
Oh yes. I'm going on an adventure.
I looked for our left winger to pass to, and he made a run towards the byeline, but their right back tracked him well so I carried on into the space the right back had left open. And then I was on the edge of the penalty area, still looking to pass but with no one open, so kept on motoring for goal, getting ready to place what would probably have been a wasteful shot, until their right centre-back came across and just hacked me down with a last-ditch challenge. A more blatant penalty you've never seen.
Did I want to take it? Did I f**k. But my teammates were going on the age-old lads' principle of "you won it, you take it", so I had to step up. My mate James told me to aim right and put my laces through it, so I did just that. Walloped it. Had enough time as my boot made contact to think that I'd spooned it and it was going a mile over the bar.
Nope. Top right-hand corner. Keeper nowhere near it. It was the winner.
It wasn't too long after that I announced my triumphant retirement from the world of sport to pursue far more healthy interests such as beer and pork pies, but The Glorious Day will always be there, and I suspect it'll never be bettered.
"I would rather spend a holiday in Tuscany than in the Black Country, but if I were compelled to choose between living in West Bromwich or Florence, I should make straight for West Bromwich." - J.B. Priestley
