Public Holiday because Women’s Day.
But we all get the day off. And it was a slow start to the morning:
Cometh the hour,
Presseth the snooze button.
But now I’m up, I’m doing a million things, all of which will culminate in another game of football this evening. Looks like we might be a bit short of subs, so I’d better bring my A-game (which is local rhyming slang for “Zimmer Frame”).
Wish me luck.
Twice. And neither of them with the result that I would have liked, but… that’s life, I guess.
United finally got their season underway at Watford last night, and were unlucky to lose. The performance was OK, but there were a few last minute injuries and admin things that meant that we couldn’t get our strongest – and more importantly, most balanced – side onto the field. One goal settled an ugly game, and now we move onto our second of six games in less than 19 days… Ridiculous.
And then tonight… I finally played football again. GET IN THERE!
Just over a year after Covid flattened me, it was great to get back onto the field again. And I was so touched that the guys gave me a guard of honour just before the game started…
Did they, bollocks. Lol!
But despite the result, I really enjoyed playing again, Honestly, it was something that I really didn’t know I would ever be able to get back to. But my biggest issue tonight (aside from the scoreline) was that my smartwatch kept telling me that my heart rate was getting a bit high, and trying to SMS my wife.
I’ll be switching that option off ASAP.
And I’m feeling good. Might be a bit stiff tomorrow, but good stiff.
And I’ll be ready to go again next week: hopefully with a better outcome.
I am SOOOOO ready to get back to playing football again. Tuesday nights are a bit of a nightmare Chez 6000, so while I’m not playing, I’m doing my level best to help out with taking kids to various places. That way, when I can play once again, and I can’t take kids to places, we can at least look back over the year and note that I did take some of the kids to some places at least some of the time.
The only thing holding me back now is this bloody calf, which sadly, I do need to chat to a Physio about. Medical expenses can like to be absolutely ridiculous this year. Not quite one hour at the cardiologist cost over R4000, but as was pointed out, that’s a tiny fraction of what an actual cardio incident might cost, and that’s a reassuring way to look at it.
The calf is a weird one. I can do everything except run. I can walk up huge hills at 6kph. I can walk for 10km around the neighbourhood. I can use a stepping machine. I can do a cardio session. No issue.
But 20 seconds into a gentle jog (ok, it was a bit longer here, but…) and we’re back to square one. And downhills are worse than uphills, which makes me wonder if the calf actually knows what it’s doing.
I read this article which told me I was getting old, but did have an interesting link to L5/S1 lower back trouble (which I’ve had since I was 16) in elite athletes (which I’ve been all my life). Just weird that it’s never manifested itself in my calf until now, but I guess that’s where the age bit comes in. If “the science” is to be believed, that is. [rolleyes emoji]
But it needs to get sorted and it needs to get sorted before 19th July, which is the last Tuesday before the anniversary of my Covid infection. And I am determined not to let this keep me out for over a year. Whatever it takes to be on that pitch, I will be there.
Because like I say, everything else is ready to go: I haven’t been this fit since… well… just before I got Covid. Whether I can ever get back to that level, I don’t know, but there’s no harm in trying and hoping.
So I’m very ready to get this one little thing mended now and get going again.
Yesterday’s climax to several of Europe’s top football leagues was every bit as exciting as any neutral could ever have hoped for. Of course, no-one is completely neutral in these matters: I can’t recall any game where I actually didn’t care at all about who was going to win. After all, we all have our little foibles and favourites and many reasons whey we hate the dirty, scab bastards from Nottingham.
And you can spin it any way you want, but Bill Shankly was right: winning is everything. And thus I know readers who will be happy and readers who won’t be happy this morning.
For me, looking across England, Spain and Italy last night (the leagues I watch) and the bits that I was mildly invested in, I got two out of three at the top (one having been decided long ago), and one of out three at the bottom (from yesterday).
Not great, but still better than the one that I was really invested in, which didn’t happen at all.
So now we are about to enter a period of quiet evenings in front of the family instead of the football. Of having to learn and talk about cricket (wut?!?) to distract ourselves, or face up to the crushing reality of South Africa’s economic predicament (I’ll take the cricket, please). Of betting on the likes of FCs Honka and Petrzalka, instead of the Blades and Real Madrid. Of blissfully early nights and lower stress levels.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself. Bring on the 30th July.
After my being broken yesterday morning, we had an enjoyable afternoon out at a friend’s place with sparkling conversation, delicious not-homemade pizza and lots and lots of sitting down. It’s hard to say which was the best bit, but the sitting down was very nice.
Then home just in time to see United bounce two goals in in the last ten minutes to beat the mighty Stoke City:
…and then early to bed.
It’s been a bit of a lazy Sunday. We’re looking forward to the return of our prodigal son, who has had the worst weather for his Scouts survival weekend. Cold (9C), Wet (26mm) and Miserable (3 sad faces*). In the meantime, I’ve lit the fire (the SA equivalent of having to switch your central heating on again) and played some lackadaisical pool.
I’m about to go and sit in front of Everton v West Ham, and even if it’s really exciting, I absolutely reserve the right to fall asleep on the couch like an old man. If the caps fits…
* I don’t know what the SI unit is for Misery