I must be getting
old.
I thought I'd cope badly when all of
my footballing heroes became younger
than me. I used to have long beered-up
pontifications over whether I could
carry on idolising star strikers and
bulldozing defenders who were still
in nappies while I was learning about
Pythagoras. There seemed to be something
a bit perverse about it.
But, that time came and went. Okay,
I don't put posters of players on my
wall anymore, and the last time I got
the Subbuteo set out and reenacted Lineker's
hat-trick against Poland in 1986 the
mother-in-law tore strips off me, but
generally I've learnt that the respect
we have for footballers isn't out of
age or money or daft hairstyles, it's
out of pure unadultered skill. So what
if some kid playing for Derby County
last season was half my age? Mind you,
after the torment suffered of the Pride
Park outfit, he probably feels older
than me now, and that is a real comfort.
But I've still got a problem with age,
namely that as a football fan you use
players' ages as a barometer to how
quickly time passes. Imagine my shock
this week then as Alan Stubbs announced
his retirement. Sure, the defensive
stalwart has had a good innings, but
I was left somewhat aghast when I clocked
his age - 36.
But how can that be right? Last time
I checked Stubbsy was a cheeky youngster
coming through the ranks at Bolton with
the likes of Alan Thompson and Jason
McAteer. Now he's an old git.
Where has all the time gone? In the
time taken for a professional footballer's
career to run its course I've been doing
what exactly? Not counting the years,
that's for sure.
Old is the new young, fair enough,
but can the years slow down a little
from now onwards please?
