Life – Page 7 – Middle Age Fanclub

NUFC: Jacob Murphy is living the dream!

Whenever a homegrown player does well, we drag out the chant. You know, that one. And it could be literally anything remotely positive that the player has done. A three yard pass, clapping the fans, slyly kicking the ball away to waste a few more seconds in time added on. It doesn’t matter – “He’s one of our own”. What’s important is that they came through the system and preferably before that, they lived a similarly ordinary life as the rest of us.

This season we’ve found a new one who deserves the chant . Not, Elliot Anderson or Sean Longstaff. Not even one of the Mileys. No, in actual fact he’s been around for ages. With his mix of pace, energy and an excellent line in shithousery, Jacob Murphy has transcended geography and academy membership and firmly taken his place as one of our own.

Murphy was signed from Norwich by Rafa Benitez in July 2017. He came with a great deal of promise, but with only one full season for Norwich under his belt, there was more than a hint of ‘one for the future’ about him. He was 22 years old and signing for his boyhood club having just starred for England Under21s in the Euros; Jacob Murphy had the world at his feet.

In the 6 seasons since he signed for the club, Murphy has made 124 appearances, 66 of which came as a substitute. During those first three seasons he only made 34 appearances for the club as he was shipped out on loan in both 2019 and 2020, to West Brom and Sheffield Wednesday respectively. Suddenly, the world most certainly wasn’t at his feet and the dream move was simply not working out. In fact, I remember people asking if we’d signed the right Murphy – Jacob is a twin, if you didn’t know and his brother Josh was performing well for Cardiff at the time.

Back at Newcastle, he managed to work his way back into the squad but was frequently played out of position by Steve Bruce, the master of wedging square pegs in round holes. The move still wasn’t working out and it felt like he was a player who would definitely be sold, sooner rather than later. Another move that we could all put down to experience.

And then, Jacob Murphy got ‘Eddied’.

Eddie Howe has been transformative for Murphy. I don’t think that’s necessarily been in terms of ability either. Murphy was a very talented player when we signed him and in my opinion was one who suffered with poor man management. For me, Rafa Benitez didn’t seem to know what to do with him and when it looked like he may well be overwhelmed with his ‘dream’ move, Benitez didn’t seem able to help. I think this was and is probably just a flaw of Benitez’s management style, as former players seem to have been at pains to talk about the very formal relationship that they had with their ex boss. As a result, Murphy went out to West Brom on loan in August 2019. He must have felt like his dream move just wasn’t going to work out.

Steve Bruce had a similar effect on Murphy. Shortly after Bruce’s arrival at the club, Murphy was sent on loan again, this time to Sheffield Wednesday with reasonable success. Upon his return to the Newcastle, he was a fairly peripheral figure and for a lot of Bruce’s time he was played out of position as a wing back in a failing system. You could see the confidence draining out of the lad and he seemed to become a specialist in making terrible decisions. This was highlighted with his choice of trying to dink the ball over Watford’s keeper when clean through on goal with the chance of a winner. Instead, he just planted the ball into the keeper’s arms. By the sound of the Radio Newcastle commentary, I don’t think John Anderson will ever get over it!

By the time we were taken over, it felt like the end of the Jacob Murphy story was nigh. He looked almost certain to be sold. And yet, to his eternal credit, he dug in, held on and retained a place in the squad. The rest is, as they say history.

Eddie Howe has repeatedly reminded us of Murphy’s value to the squad. Successive players – Sean Longstaff springs to mind – have stressed his importance in terms of the spirit in the group. Longstaff said, “If it wasn’t for Murph, a lot of the way the group is it wouldn’t be as together, the training standard wouldn’t be as high. You see him coming on in games and the impact he makes.” He went on to refer to Murphy as a “comfort blanket”. And you can see where those sentiments come from. Murphy just seems like the archetypal ‘good lad’; a bit of a laugh, a positive influence and someone who’s always smiling. Jacob Murphy is having a ball.

As fans, our awareness of Jacob Murphy has been raised by his antics on the pitch as well as his improving form. From his mock awkward expression as he brushed past an apoplectic Marco Silva when we’d beaten Fulham, to his waving off of Duje Caleta-Car in the cup semi final against Southampton, right through to the shocked expression on his face after his screamer against Spurs recently. Brilliant to see from a Toon player, but infuriating for the opposition, which seems to be our trademark these days!

In may ways, Jacob Murphy is the poster boy for Eddie Howe’s quiet revolution. He’s certainly the latest to benefit from Howe’s methods and is finally fulfilling what was the undoubted potential he showed when we signed him all those years ago. Murphy’s decision making seems to have got a great deal better and he seems to be brimming with confidence. No more running down blind alleys; these days Murphy seems quite happy to back himself and take defenders on. And as for his second goal against Tottenham? I think his own reaction summed it up, really. As he said himself, he was “feeling juicy”! For me though, it was easily one of the biggest ‘Wow’ moments in a season full of ‘Wow’ moments. As the saying goes, ‘what a hit’! Add in the goal on Thursday night against Everton and Murphy is timing his run to the end of the season just right.

Murphy has been in every match day squad this season, appearing in every game and has also now started 6 of the last 7 matches. Currently, he’s playing brilliantly and keeping top scorer Miguel Almiron out of the team. If you’d said these things at the start of the season, I doubt anyone would have believed that they’d actually happen.

Remember as well, that Newcastle United were his boyhood club. He gets to pull on the shirt and is representing that badge brilliantly. He’s loved by the fans and massively appreciated by his team mates, as well as probably being increasingly feared by the opposition. Jacob Murphy is well and truly living the Geordie dream!

Grassroots Grumbles: For once, there’s nothing to grumble about.

It’s been a tough start to the year as a grassroots football coach. Illness meant that for the final couple of months of 2022 I wasn’t able to coach my team and while I returned to games in January, I couldn’t take a training session until March of 2023.

Despite the hardship, there was no point in grumbling. In terms of my health, anything that I was able to do was simply a bonus. Even organising a training session for someone else to take occupied my mind for a bit, meaning a change in my boring 4 month long routine of a daily walk and then little else.

Then, when I was able to return full time to actual games, it just felt amazing to be involved again. A few of the boys in the squad hadn’t trained while I was in recovery as they weren’t keen on the coaches that replaced me, so it was great to see them back when I returned. And I can honestly say that when our goalkeeper told me, “It’s good to see you”, it was one of the happiest moments of my whole recovery.

We’re a team of varied ability with a smattering of really capable young footballers joined by a group with less ability but lots of enthusiasm. We play in Division 6 of 7, which is an indicator of the ability, but at the start of January we were rock bottom of our league with no wins and no points. In my first game back on 15th January we lost 10-0 and things looked pretty bleak. However, a 4-0 defeat in our next game, against a very good side near the top of the league, was heartening. We were organised, determined and it was clear that the message was getting through. We were finally being competitive in games.

On 5th February this year we played the team who were at the top of our league. I’ll be honest, we’ve never given them a decent game in the three years that we’ve been playing against them, so I didn’t have a great deal of hope. Amazingly though, everything clicked and despite the fact that we were clinging on towards the end of the game, we won 3-2! It was a memorable day and as I was still weak from my operation, it took everything out of me. But, I was smiling and so were my team.

In our next game we reverted to type somewhat and got thumped again, but not long after we picked up another point in a home draw. We’d led three times in the game, so the signs were very good. We lost the next three games, but rarely looked anything but competitive. Confidence was growing…

And then, after a few weather induced postponements came our latest two games. The first one on 16th April followed by last night (at the time of writing), Thursday 20th April. We won both games, scoring 6 goals, conceding 3 and dominating both games for long periods of time. In the main, only silly decisions and mistakes put us under any pressure and had we taken more of the numerous chances we created then we would have given someone a real thumping.

In the first of those games we got in at half time a goal down, but somehow full of confidence that we could win. We looked good and seemed the fitter of the two teams. If we applied some pressure, the three points were there for the taking. I pointed out that only one team looked like they wanted the win and it was us. And win we did, scoring three goals without reply in that second 35 minutes.

Last night was different. An away game against a team that had beaten us a few weeks ago, a local rival and the team just above us in the league. But we went 2-0 up quite early and were by far the better team. At half time we told the lads that we could only beat ourselves; the game was there for the taking. Concentrate, no silly decisions, no need to chase the win as we were 2-0 up. We conceded a goal after about a minute of the second half!

After that though we settled really well and extended our lead midway through the half to almost break the spirits of our opposition. Almost. However, in the last 10 minutes their coaches, their players and even their parents began pressuring the referee for fouls left, right and centre. We kept going forward and really should have added a few more goals, but with about 3 minutes left one of our defenders made a silly challenge and the ref awarded a penalty, which they scored.

My boys fought like lions after that. We slowed everything down, threw ourselves into challenges and battled to keep control of the ball. It felt like about an hour before the ref blew the final whistle and it was brilliant to watch the reaction of our squad as substitutes ran on to the field to celebrate with their squad mates. You’d have thought we’d won a cup final! But what a joy to see after the last few months.

My team have suffered this year. Opponents – and sadly, some coaches – have laughed at them in defeat. Lots of things have gone wrong. My heart surgery seemed to shock them, not least my son who plays for the team and came home crying after a game in December when I couldn’t attend and they got beat in the last seconds of the game. And as a result of my surgery, they’ve had to make do, training with a younger age group for months. Rarely have their heads dropped and they’ve shown up in numbers week after week. Now, as we ride the wave of optimism that any victory brings, let alone 2 in 5 days, it feels like we’re a hell of a team and I couldn’t be more proud.

Speaking to my wife in hospital in November, I told her that I didn’t think I’d be able to carry on coaching. It made me feel very sad, but it made sense while my body, and to some extent my mind, felt so broken. Now, there might just be a little bit of light at the end of the tunnel and there’s definitely not a lot to grumble about!

Poetry Blog: ‘You can’t unring a bell…’

A poem with a message, this one. It’s about not giving up and for me personally, it’s about the health problems I’ve had and the importance to me of not giving in to them. It’s about getting better. If it means something to anyone else or helps in any way, then that’s a rather lovely bonus.

I know that everyone has their problems, their bumps in the road and that some people have it far worse than others; far worse than me. But I’m a big believer in working my way back into the right frame of mind or the right headspace. So this is a poem about the fact that we can’t change a lot of what happens to us. It happened. It will leave a mark. But for me personally, I think it’s important to keep moving. For me, I need to recover and there’s been a lot of telling myself that lately.

You can't unring a bell.
its sound resonates across rooms, miles, borders
and the act that made the sound cannot be changed.
Eventually, the noise will stop, but the memory will always remain.
You can't illuminate the darkness with a permanence
that will mean you never have to stumble down a path again.
What's done is done now though.
Sometimes it will feel like one beating too many,
the volume of the punches thrown
is sure to leave bruises
and you'll feel like you can't get up.
Haul yourself to your knees,
grab someone or something for support,
clear your head and try, as best you can,
to get back up on your feet.
Let your eyes adjust to the darkness.
Let you body stop aching.
Breathe and then feel your way back, however slowly, into the light.

The poem started with just the first line. I heard it somewhere – I don’t remember where – and I really liked it. I didn’t really know what it meant, apart from its literal meaning. So, I wrote it down on a scrap of paper to come back to. When I got back to it, the poem just flowed around the idea of moving on from whatever it is that happens. You can’t unring a bell, but it will getting quieter.

I understand that it’s never just as simple as that and that’s what I was referring to with the metaphor of the bell. Once it’s rung, it’s rung. Once it’s stopped making the noise we will still hear it, still remember what it sounds like. We’ll suffer with the things that happen to us and we perhaps won’t forget them. But it’s hugely important to try and move on.

I hope you liked the poem. It’s a short one, but I hope it means something to more than just me.

The Pacemaker Diaries: We’ve definitely hit a bump in the road.

Every once in a while I’ve written an update of what I called my ‘Pacemaker Diary’ over the last few months. It’s mainly because it’s a good way for me to have a bit of a moan, but it also fills people in on how things are going and means that there might just be a few less people that I have to lie to and fob off by telling them I’m ‘getting there’. I mean, if I had a pound for every time I’d said that since November, I’d be a millionaire. I’d also be very annoyed at myself for not discovering this get rich quick scheme a lot earlier.

I thought I’d update simply because a lot of them so far have been about progress, however small that’s been. But lately, my progress has slowed to a crawl again. Maybe writing about it might help me find the motivation that’s needed to keep moving on. Or maybe it’ll help me to ‘frame myself’ as some would say in our part of Yorkshire.

It’s been a shock that such a small thing could derail me so much. But initially it was a slight cold that slowed me right down. It was a couple of weeks ago that I was aware that I was slowing down again. I couldn’t go upstairs without feeling out of breath and had a hint of a cough. So it wasn’t a heavy cold, but it was having an effect on me.

At the same time I’d stepped up the hours of teaching on my phased return to work, taking on an additional class and four extra hours of teaching a week. That weekend the football team that I coach had its game cancelled, leaving me with a free Sunday. Rather than rest, I decided to go for a run in the early morning sunshine. Boy, would I regret that.

I hadn’t even ran a mile and I was struggling. But, I kept on going. Not long after though, a little voice in my head was telling me that I couldn’t do this. It was a voice that dominated me when I was younger, but one that I really hadn’t heard in years. Still, I kept on until faced with a long hill to run up, I decided on a compromise. With my body aching and struggling to breath steadily I re-routed, doubled back and avoided the hill, settling for running a 5k (3.1 miles) rather than the 4 miles I’d been aiming for. It was slow and ragged, but worst of all, I didn’t enjoy even one step of it.

I only just made it. My legs felt like they were falling forward independently of the rest of my body and I was wheezing heavily. I was alarmed by just how I terrible I felt. I took a photo of myself when I’d finished and it horrified me when I looked at it later. I looked haggered and old. Everything hurt and it left me feeling very down. My body continued to ache well into the next week.

On the Monday at work, my Year 7 form were added to the mix on my timetable and even on the first day of that happening I was struggling. I’d had a poor weekend, not really sleeping and struggling to shift the tiny bit of cold that I’d picked up. On the very first day of the week I put in a request to have my last lesson of the day covered in order to head home early. Work, as ever during this whole nightmare, were kind and obliging. A great start to the week though and enough to show me that getting back to a full teaching timetable might have to be a way off yet.

I’m also struggling with a back problem that had first hit me in February. I’d bent down to pick up my son’s football boots and been hit by nausea inducing levels of pain as my back froze. I’ve struggled with my back for many years, so I though it would pass within a week or so, but it hasn’t. Instead, even as I write, I can feel pain in my hips and hamstrings. The pain has moved down my body and in way, I feel more fragile than ever. Nothing to do with my heart – for once – but enough to begin to get me down.

The next weekend brought even more problems and no run, making me feel like any recovery had very much ground to a halt. I seemed to have picked up some sort of bug and felt dizzy and sick the whole time.

My heart continues to just plod along nicely, kept in check by the little machine that sits just underneath my left collarbone. The scarring hurts still, but that feels like the least of my worries.

The most frustrating thing of all is that my heart feels fine. However, having hidden the problem for around 6 months last year and then had to take so long off work after my operation, my body might just be a little bit broken. Clearly working for so long with the problem has really cost me. Clearer still, spending four months at home, only managing a daily walk while being otherwise inactive doesn’t keep your fitness at the levels you might need, however much you might kid yourself.

I’m quickly learning that my body is going to take much, much longer than I thought to heal. It feels like the slightest little problem, like a cold or a stomach bug, is going to have a huge effect, setting me back if not to square one, then square 3 or 4 at best. Impatient as I am, I wanted to be just stepping off square 25 by this point. As a result, I’m angry and sad and I really don’t like feeling that way.

I’m hopeful that the coming weeks will go better for me. I’ve rested and not gone out for a run for over a week, but I hope that I’ll feel ready enough soon to get going once again. I’ve entered a 10k race in May and am desperate to take part. It’ll really hurt if I’m not able to do it.

Poetry Blog: ‘Reach’.

A couple of weeks ago I posted a poetry blog and a bit of an angry rant of a poem called ‘Simple as that’. That one was a poem about the troubles I’ve had with my heart in the last few months. Well, apologies because I’m writing about the same thing again. I suppose this is inevitable as my health dominates every day at the moment, but I’m sorry if this seems like I’m raking over old ground. You can take it from me though, there’s a lot to talk about on this subject!

This poem is, in a way, the partner poem to ‘Simple as that.’ Where that one was pretty much furious in tone, this one could maybe be viewed as me feeling just sick and tired of it all. It’s one written when I wasn’t sleeping so well, so probably written around 2am one Winter morning and I would have felt like just giving up.

Anyway, have a read.

Reach

You're not quite in any kind of hell, 
and while you're very definitely moving forward
it's sometimes hard to tell,
like trying out the treadmill in diver's boots,
a head full of questions, but no answers
and of other people's made up thoughts and opinions
as the paranoia kicks in and leaves its mark
alongside all of the other scarring.
Suddenly mortality is on the agenda
and you sleepwalk your way through hours, days,
contemplating just how long you might have left.
Every stretch, every reach, every twist is some kind of pain,
the opportunity to hold someone who matter has gone,
replaced by something tentative, mechanical.
Some days are more positive, so you lose yourself in song,
contemplate enjoying things again
and force yourself not to think that you're just glad to be alive,
because that particular platitude feels like nothing more than consolation.
Every piece of good news and every milestone is blighted by doubt.
One day things will be normal again,
your smile not forced, the back of your mind not crowded with clouds.
For now, moving on is just out of reach.

At the time of writing this poem it just felt like I was never getting better. Yes, I’d be able to do a little bit more every day, walk a little further, maybe even do some dishes, but I found it very frustrating. I’d gone from being very fit and capable – for my age – to being very slow and poorly and old! I really didn’t enjoy this at all!

I’d been told not to raise my left arm above my head for at least a week, for fear of dislodging my pacemaker wires, and that this was a process that would be difficult and uncomfortable for 6-8 weeks. Six to eight weeks of having pain when you lift an arm up! It meant that shaving, washing, washing my hair etc were difficult to say the least and I needed help getting in and out of my clothes. I mention mortality in the poem; not because I thought I might be nearing my end though. It was just that I used to be out on my daily walk, knowing that when I got home the day would be more or less at its end as I wouldn’t be able to do a lot more. It felt like I was wasting time and I began to think about that in terms of having already probably lived half of my life. It was just about what I’d be able to fit into what was left, I suppose.

Things have got better. I’m nowhere near where I want to be but know that it’s going to about steady progress with the odd stumbling block. I hope you liked the poem.

Film Review: ‘The Phantom of The Open’.

Golf is one of those sports and subjects that tends to polarise opinion, isn’t it? Many will quote the famous Mark Twain line about it being “a good walk spoiled”, but for every one of those there’s a fan who is simply addicted to the game. Wherever your opinion lies on golf though, I think you’ll enjoy the film.

The Phantom of the Open is a 2021 comedy drama starring Sir Mark Rylance. It tells the true life tale of Maurice Flitcroft, a crane driver from Cumbria whose attempts to enter the British Open back in 1976, caused much controversy amongst the golfing fraternity.

Watching the film I came to the opinion that Flitcroft was very much a modern day working class hero. Here was a man who despite having never picked up a club in his life, decided to dream big. Partly down to naivety and partly down to his desire to live a full life and follow his dreams, Flitcroft applied for the tournament, bought some knock off clubs and gear and began to practice.

But this film is not all about the golf. Maurice is simply a lovely man and a born optimist. He encourages his wife and sons to dream big too and helps them out in any way he can. What ensues is a touching tale of working class family life and love that teaches us that even when the chips are down, to keep on dreaming and keep on smiling. In many ways, the golf and Maurice’s pursuit of some kind of Open glory is a bit of a sideshow.

That said, watching Maurice innocently take on the establishment and stuffed shirts that seem to dominate golf even to this day is an absolute riot! Ticking the ‘Professional’ box on his entry form is just the start of the fun. When he actually takes to the course – having been turned away from his local course by the snobs that govern it – the hilarity hits like a whacking drive down the fairway, all the way to the green. Needless to say it doesn’t end well, but this only leads to Maurice continuing to stick it to ‘the man’ by attempting to play the tournament year upon year!

Mark Rylance is just superb as Flitcroft. I must admit, when I saw that he was doing the film, I was surprised to say the least. Maybe I was guilty of the same snobbery that the film tackles, but Rylance’s name screamed Shakespeare, rather than comedy tales of wayward amateur golfers. It turns out that I needn’t have worried as the subtlety of his portrayal of Watkins is just wonderful. Rylance nails it, portraying Maurice as honest, naïve and vulnerable, while also conveying his endless kindness and love for his family. Maurice is a character that you might just find yourself falling for, such is Rylance’s performance.

The rest of the cast are brilliant too. Sally Hawkins (The Shape of Water, Paddington) is fantastic as Flitcroft’s wife, encouraging his dreams however absurd they might seem. Elsewhere, Mark Lewis Jones plays Cliff, Watkins’s every so slightly dodgy but well meaning pal and Rhys Ifans is hilarious as Maurice’s nemesis, the interfering Keith Mackenzie, the chairman of the almost sacred St. Anrdews gold course.

Sitting down to watch I was just expecting a bit of a comedy. A few laughs along the way and probably a bit of hilarity as our working class hero takes on the establishment. In reality what I got was much, much more. This was a truly engaging study of a great British eccentric, as well as a enduring love story. The Watkins family live for each other and love and affection is never in short supply, making for a really touching piece of film. And there’s drama too, when things inevitably go wrong with Maurice’s dream.

As a true story, the film sends out a message. It’s not just a chance to watch this funny little man do things he’s not supposed to. The film teaches us that there’s nothing wrong in following your dreams and that it doesn’t matter what others might say or even how unattainable those dreams might seem; if you want it, then the only thing that’s stopping you from at least giving it a go, is you.

The Phantom of The Open is very funny and at times brilliantly dramatic. It’s much more than just a film about golf. A true underdog story this film will take you on a rocky ride from start to finish and you’ll be rooting for Maurice all the way. And if by the end, like me, you find that there’s something in your eye, then don’t be surprised.

I’d give ‘The Phantom of The Open’

Back on the grass: I’m coaching again!

Just over four months ago, I sat on a hospital bed, typing out a series of WhatsApp messages informing various people of what I wasn’t going to be able to do for a while. Impending heart surgery will do that for you. I was surprisingly practical, but at that point was trying to think of things to do to keep the panic at bay. So those texts became vital. I wouldn’t be able to work for a while, I wouldn’t be able to see friends and family, I would possibly be even more grumpy and I wouldn’t be able to coach football.

The last one felt particularly desperate. I hated the idea of missing work, but at least there were plenty of people to keep everything moving and in actual fact, I wouldn’t be missed that much. But football felt different. I have twenty 13 and 14 year old boys in my squad. They love playing football and I take my role in their lives – however big or small that might be – very seriously. I was really going to miss what I do and I felt like I was letting them down badly.

Thankfully, several people stepped up and the team kept rolling on. The Great British Winter played a wonderful and some would say inevitable part in having games called off too, meaning that I wasn’t missing anywhere near as many matches as I assumed I would.

Fast forward a few months and I was able to stand on the touchline at games again. At first, just as a dad and then when one week, when there was no one else able to take the team, I stepped back into my big coaching coat and took the team again, being very careful to keep movement to a minimum and to stay as calm as I could manage! Since then, there have been a few more games and a bit more of an active role. Grassroots football has that effect; as calm as you tell yourself to be and as still as you’d like to keep, becoming animated at the very least, is almost inevitable.

I didn’t dare to attempt an actual coaching session though. Training would involve a lot more physical activity and simply going out for my daily walk was enough to tire me out By 6pm, when we would start training, I was worn out and staying awake watching telly was a chore. So, despite feeling absolutely desperate to get back out there and work on the kind of things we needed to try out in games, I stayed well out of the way.

However, I told myself that once I got back to work and was finding that I could cope with that particular daily grind, then I would make the move to get back to training sessions. It still wasn’t straightforward though, as I had to cancel two sessions due to firstly my health and then the weather. And then, with nothing else to stand in my way, I was able to get back out onto the pitch amongst my team.

We train on a 3G pitch in winter, which means that the surface doesn’t need to be an issue. There’s no danger of ruining a pitch for weekend games. What there is though is an area that appears to have it’s own micro-climate. Training is literally a mile from my house, but it is almost always about 5 degrees (at least) colder and blowing a gale up there! My first session back was no different and we also had some driving rain too! It really didn’t feel too good to be back!

I made sure that I wrapped up warm, practically mummified in about four layers, but it was still freezing cold when we got out of the car. I felt a strange mixture of excitement and nerves; happy to be back, but terrified of the thought of getting knocked anywhere near my pacemaker. My cardiologist had assured me that while it would hurt, I’d be ok, but it was still at the forefront of my mind.

It made me smile that my team seemed surprised to see me as I arrived. Those that were there early were kicking a ball about on an adjacent pitch, seemingly unaware that I would be taking the session and of those that arrived a bit later, several of them headed over to train with our Under 13 coaches, who have been looking after them for the last few months!

And then it was time to set up. Dodging flying footballs is always a joy when you’re trying to get some cones down or mark out a drill, but tonight felt a bit different given my circumstances. The thought of a wayward football smacking into my chest made me wary to say the least and it felt a little like the start of Saving Private Ryan, but with size 4 footballs and no beach.

It turns out though, that training, like going back to a job you’ve done for a couple of decades, is a bit like riding a bike. It felt wonderfully familiar and it was great to back amongst my team, pointing things out, making little tweaks to the ways they did things and standing back and having a chat to our other coaches while the kids did the work. Unlike what I remember of riding a bike however, it was absolutely exhausting.

At one point I joined in with a drill as one of our players didn’t have a partner, but lasted about 2 minutes before asking another coach to take over. It felt like I’d just ran an 800 metres at full speed and I was completely out of breath. The legs were like jelly and I was just able to kind of stumble off to gather myself a bit. Ironically, when I checked my heart rate on my watch – force of habit these days – it seemed to be the only thing that wasn’t out of shape!

I’d decided to keep training simple for my first time back. Not too many drills, nothing complicated that would need to be explained time after time after time and not a great deal required of me. We’d do a couple of fitness drills, a passing drill and then focus on having a game where we’d have plenty of time to stop and start and point a few things out when needed.

I tried to stand back and just watch but it wasn’t long before I was on the pitch acting both as a ref and a coach and while I wasn’t really running around, it still took its toll. It seems even with the restrictions of a new pacemaker it’s difficult to fight my enthusiasm for football.

Before too long the next team to train were arriving and we were wrapping up the game and packing up kit. Other people were kind enough to carry the bags, but as we headed to the car I was suddenly aware of exactly how old and tired I felt! Even an ‘easy’ hour had practically wiped me out and so when I got home, soaked and freezing cold, I was quick to take off my layers and get into my now familiar, post pacemaker uniform of pyjamas and a hoodie. After that, the evening was just about trying to stay awake!

It’s great to be back involved with my team again. When I sent the initial WhatsApp messages, I told myself that it would only be a few weeks, but deep down I knew it was going to take me a good while longer to be able to have the strength to get back to coaching. At times, just a short walk or staying awake has been a challenge, so it tells me that I’ve made significant progress that I can set foot back on a football pitch again.

A few days later, I was still suffering. My back and legs ached and there was a real soreness around the scarring where they put my pacemaker in. My heart was still working perfectly well it seemed – albeit with a bit of help – and I was still smiling That’s what matters most at the moment.

Since then, there’s been a little bit of a bump in the road and I’ve had a rough week. I had to cancel the very next training session, due to a bug I’d caught which has not been pleasant at all. I’ve been back to being extremely lethargic and breathless too, so it’s been a timely reminder of the length of the road that I’m on, so to speak. Certainly, one training session does not mean I’m fit and strong again!

For now, there’s only a day until our next match, when once again I’ll battle my urge to get too involved in what’s going on on the pitch! I’ll undoubtedly have to take it easy and am sure that the eyes of my nearest and dearest will be watching me like hawks. Still though, I can’t wait for kick off!

Book Review: 20 Travel Tales in 200 Words.

‘20 Travel Tales in 200 Words’ kind of fell into my digital lap when one of the writers reached out and asked if I’d like to review it. What follows though is a completely honest review.

I don’t know about you, but I love to travel. And I’ve been lucky enough to visit quite a few places in my quest to see a bit more of the world. However, over the years life has gotten in the way of my travel ambitions – life and my natural impulse to err on the side of caution that is – and so in truth, I’ve not managed to visit anywhere near the amount of places that I’d have liked. And now, since another bout of heart surgery, my ambitions have been somewhat naturally curtailed. I mean, have you seen the amount of questions you have to answer in order to get travel insurance when you have certain medical conditions? I’m afraid I haven’t got the time or patience! So, I somewhat sate my desire to travel the corners of the earth with travel documentaries or in this case, travel books.

My latest read was ’20 Travel Tales in 200 Words’ and as the title suggests, it’s a book chock full of travel tales that are limited to exactly 200 words each. Quite the challenge, let me assure you. Two hundred words is usually the length of one of my rambling introductions, so I’m already in admiration at the idea of telling entertaining travel tales with such a self imposed restriction.

The writers are two full time broadcast media professionals who love to travel when time allows. They approach every trip as a potential ‘trip of a lifetime’ and this book documents some of their travels using the literary gimmick of a 200 word tale illustrated by some fantastic images for a bit of perspective.

Described as ‘snapshots of happenings on travels’, the book takes us on a bit of a trip around the world, taking in destinations such as Costa Rica, Santorini, the East of Canada and even the Galapagos Islands. Quite the pair of David Attenboroughs, these two! Each tale is accompanied by stunning photographs from their time in each destination, adding a splash of colour to the humour and drama of the anecdotes.

On minute they’re dicing with death, zip lining through the clouds in Costa Rica, the next they’re channeling their inner me and relaxing on sun loungers in Jamaica, reading and drinking daiquiris.

’20 Travel Tales in 200 Words’ is a book that will appeal to those with an adventurous nature, while allowing the more tame among us to dream, just a little bit and live the life of an explorer in some small way.

The tales are well written as well as being carefully chosen. No two tales are the same and all are told with a gentle humour and a genuine sense of love for the places visited as well as for travel itself. And in spite of the amazing images, it’s easy to get a decent flavour of the destinations here, as despite the limit on words, everything is described with the kind of vocabulary that helps ignite the imagination, so that even if it’s a place of which you know very little, it’s often brought to just enough life that it lets you in. So while ’20 Tales…’ isn’t a guide book, it does more than enough to whet the appetite for seeking out new destinations. As the book itself suggests, ‘there is always more to the story’.

’20 Travel Tales in 200 Words’ is an excellent read. A snapshot of the kind of adventures and misadventures that can come our way when we stretch our boundaries and give ourselves a chance to explore the planet, the book is sure to entertain you. Entertaining, at times heartwarming and of course concise, I’d certainly recommend that you give it a go, if like me, you find yourself regularly daydreaming of being somewhere else.

I’d give ’20 Travel Tales in 200 Words’

Buy the book as an e-book or a soft cover by visiting http://Travel Books | Trips of a Lifetime (makethemalltripsofalifetime.com)

You can find out more about the writers and their trips of a life time at http://www.makethemalltripsofalifetime.com

Always Look on the Bright Side: Five things that made me smile lately.

It’s been a while since I wrote one of these posts. The delay hasn’t been because I’ve not been smiling, but let’s just say that the last few months have been complicated! Regular readers will know why and at times there’s not been a great deal to smile about, try as I might.

I write these posts mainly to remind myself that life is pretty good at least most of the time. Of course things will test us and our ability to raise a smile and it’s easy to descend into a bit if a fug about it all. Work, kids, obsessions with sports teams, relationships, taxes, traffic…they’ll all test your patience. Every so often though, when I have time to reflect I’m able to realise that there’s plenty to smile about. And every time I write one of these, people let me know that it’s nice to be reminded of the simple things that let us know that it’s not all doom and gloom!

So here we go…what’s been making me smile lately?

I’m running again. Before the last few weeks I hadn’t been out running since the middle of October. I’d missed it desperately. However, a combination of knowing that I needed to be patient with my body (how frustrating!) and the fact that going running genuinely terrified me, had kept me in my slippers rather than my running trainers. Not even getting a fancy new pair of runners for Christmas could tempt me back. While I was poorly I made sure that I went out for a walk most days. I built this up slowly and by mid January was out every day for around an hour. It would wipe me out for the next few hours of the day, but it felt wonderful. As time went on I would go for a walk/run combination on a Saturday morning, but that would mean running probably less than a mile all told. It didn’t really feel like it counted. Then, on Valentine’s Day, with the weather looking wonderful I went out for what was supposed to be a tentative run. I wouldn’t be going far – a couple of miles at most. I even took my son out as a bit of mini support. We ended up doing a 5k in just over 32 minutes and I was beyond thrilled. And beyond exhausted! Since then I’ve done three more runs, gradually moving on in distance each time. My latest was last Wednesday when I managed to run 3.75 miles (just over 6km) in 32 minutes. I clocked my 5k time as 27.49, which I’d normally be disappointed with. But, for the last few months things have been far from normal. Being able to run again and feeling even a little bit of confidence doing it has felt absolutely wonderful.
An unusual location for a jingle. Part of my new running route takes me through a business park. Twice now I’ve found myself grinning from ear to ear as a pie truck has arrived at the park and sounded an ice cream van type jingle to let office workers know it’s ‘pie time’! For those of you who remember the show, it plays the Benny Hill theme tune, which makes me wonder if the boss runs out with all their workers following them in some kind of slapdash column to get their savoury treats!
A snow day! I’ve only been back at work for a few weeks and on a very partial timetable at that. However, when school was closed because of snow at the back end of last week, I couldn’t hide how thrilled I was at getting a free day off! It was a Friday too, meaning a 3 day weekend…unbeatable!
Care Home Movie Posters. Now not only is this a great name for a band, it made for an excellent story too. This was something I read about on the BBC website; the story of how residents at a care home in Bristol had been recreating posters of some of their favourite films. You can read about it – and view some of the images – on the link below, but basically, if you’re not smiling at the octogenarian Godfather or Jean, 92 as Maria Von Trapp from The Sound of Music, then you’re taking life far too seriously!

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-64866813

I won’t spoil the story for you by putting the images up, but in looking for further information on the story I did find that they’re not the only care home to have had this idea. Below is a picture from another care home that did the same thing, but with different films. Again, if this version of Reservoir Dogs isn’t making you grin, then I genuinely feel for you!

5. Kids being kids. The final thing that has made me smile lately – that I’m writing about anyway; I’ve smiled more than 5 times lately – came on our snow day. In the afternoon I went for a walk in the snow with my wife and daughter and it made me smile a lot. Firstly, our town looked amazing blanketed in white, as did our view of Leeds. Secondly, watching my daughter attempting to navigate snow, ice and mud in trainers and a pale blue pair of joggers made me laugh a lot. Eventually, she tucked her joggers into her bright blue novelty socks, worn for warmth, not to be seen and slithered her way through the terrain like that. Unmissable.

Towards the end of our walk though, we cut across the bottom of a hill that runs around the edge of the estate where we live. Above us, on various positions around the hill were dozens of children and sometimes parents, sledging and throwing snowballs. It felt like a bit of a throwback to my own childhood with not a mobile phone in sight and instead, just kids being kids and enjoying throwing themselves around in the snow. We even came across my son, messing around with friends that he’s known in primary school, but had since lost touch with a little bit when they went their separate ways at high school. It seemed the snow was uniting us all and not just by imprisoning us in cars stuck in traffic jams for once. Even later on that afternoon, thinking about it made me smile.

I hope you enjoyed reading and that maybe my experiences made you smile a bit too. Whatever you’re doing over the next week or so, make sure that you try to find a moment to allow yourself a smile.

Poetry Blog: ‘Simple as that’

When I was ill – think death’s door to ramp up the drama, dear reader – I had numerous sleepless nights and chunks of these solitary hours were taken up by writing poems. Although I talked a lot about what was going on with my weakling heart, there was still a lot left unsaid. You can’t burden people with everything that’s going on in your head, can you?

As I began to get better and slept more, I sort of forgot about these poems. Some were repeatedly drafted, others clearly unfinished; snapshots of how I was feeling. Some were in a notebook, while others were scribbled down onto random bits of paper retrieved from our ‘drawing cupboard’ which still somehow exists, despite both kids being way beyond sitting at the table drawing. All were collected up and thrown together with the vow that I’d revisit them when the time was right. I took a picture of this one complete with scribbling, arrows, asterisks and late night handwriting. Quite a bit to decipher some months later!

This poem is a bit of a rant, to say the least and the more I read it back, the more I’m convinced I was channeling my inner John Cooper Clarke, yet without his gift for words.

'Simple as that.'

This heart of yours is having a laugh; it's as simple as that.
The sole aim of the holiday was just to relax
but your body wouldn't even allow that 
and instead you collapse at the airport, then
practically pass out on a promenade bench in the heat,
before having to call for help weeks later, 
when giving out paper became a bit too much for your health.
False hope in the hospital once again ended
when they then decided that your heart is need of being mended
and you're treated to an operation surely designed for pensioners
that you cannot help but keep on mentioning as
you're put on a ward with people 30 years older than you
and a crazed Slovakian, who laughs in his sleep and howls at the moon.
Consolation is thin on the ground, unlike the tea 
and the biscuits that shouldn't really be allowed,
you another have scar that is ugly and crap and in truth
your chest is beginning to resemble and Ordinance Survey Map.
Back home you discover a penchant for pyjamas that was never there before
style, much like your dignity has now been slung across the floor
and any remaining semblance of cool has been traded in,
there's no doubt about that, without so much as a crossed word,
let alone a fight and now, my friend, you look like a twat.
On top of this, you cannot leave the house without a hat
to keep you warm, cannot get to sleep until it's almost dawn,
cannot wash properly, cannot tie your own fucking laces, 
cannot walk down the street with anything other than shuffling paces,
you cannot run, you cannot dress yourself, cannot rant, cannot rave
and now you look like a tramp because you cannot shave
meaning that, as December looms with its festive banter,
your surprisingly white beard has you turning into Santa
and as life is forced down this prematurely ageing path,
this heart of your is having a fucking laugh.

So clearly I was a bit on the angry side then! And it’s easy to look back now and smile about it all, but believe me it was a horrible time in my life. Around 4 months of being stuck either in hospital or at home, feeling a bit sorry for myself, fending off peoples’ best wishes and enquiries and bein unable to do very much at all. And even before that, we were unable to enjoy a holiday because I collapsed in the airport. I suppose it’s all there in the poem! Apologies for the swearing if that’s offensive, by the way. Just words to me and words that had to be in there in order to capture my feelings, but I know some people don’t like that kind of thing.

I rarely bother with rhyme but in this poem I’ve made a conscious effort to use it. I was determined though that it wouldn’t be a simple rhyming poem. Instead, I opted for mixing up the rhyme so that while for large parts of the poem it’s quite traditional, occasionally I threw in a bit of internal rhyme just to mess with the structure. I wanted to do this just to try and reflect the disorder in my life at the time. I mean, for quite a while I never knew when I was going to simply fall asleep – often in the middle of a conversation – so it was hard to enjoy an ordered, planned day!

I wanted to present the poem as a bit of a rant and so there aren’t many end stops in there. Believe me though, when you’re sat on your own, wide awake at 3am, you can become prone to a bit of a rant, even if they have to be quiet ones!

As ever then, I hope you enjoyed the poem. Feel free to let me know what you thought!