The walking football blog

By Tim Walker

Open goal!

Week one

You’d imagine a sport with ‘walking’ in the title and played by people primarily over 50 (I'm 59) to be sedate, easy-paced, slow even.

The reality of my first session on the hallowed Astroturf of a large secondary school was very different.

This was an intensive 60-minute workout which would have stretched even 30-year-old me. I am, however, quite competitive where sport is concerned. I could have largely stood in one place, waiting for the ball to come to me. But after so long away from the game I so loved to play as a youngster, I am hungry for action, I want to be the hat-trick hero, a grey-haired Roy of the Rovers.

On arrival, I had looked around the pitch at my assorted teammates/opponents – 10 men and 3 women. Many are like me – mid-late 50s – and probably, like me, coming along thinking it will be a walk in the park.

Some don’t look too mobile, in fact one guy appears to have knees which barely function. But that, I quickly realise, is why this is such an accessible sport. Pretty much anyone can play. The chap with the dodgy knees hangs around the goal area, a sort of old-fashioned centre-forward, and is surprisingly agile when the ball does reach him.

Everyone wants him to score, there’s a real feeling of togetherness as we all urge him to find the back of the net. He’ll be delighted to get on the scoresheet, bad knees and all, it will make his day. But in fact, there is still enough competitiveness in the other team that they won’t concede – not even to make this old man’s dreams come true.

Meanwhile, a few of the walking footballers are – let’s just say – carrying a few extra pounds. But fair play to them, this is a great workout, ideal for toning neglected physiques.

There are a couple of younger players, I estimate still in their 40s, and it is these ‘ringers’ who largely dominate the early stages of the match.

My first touch is clumsy. I haven’t kicked a ball for more than a decade. The last time was probably in the park with my sons circa 2010. Come to think of it, my very last kick of the ball back then resulted in a pulled hamstring and me hobbling around for a week, realising it was time to finally hang up my boots.

Back then, if you’d put the words ‘walking’ and ‘football’ together, you’d have been carted off and excommunicated from the high church of association football.

"I haven’t kicked a ball for more than a decade. The last time was probably in the park with my sons circa 2010"

Now of course, it’s a serious sport with administrators, associations and leagues. Despite this, I feel that I am in on the ground floor, so to speak, and that maybe I’ll soon be riding the wave of popularity, just like women footballers are rightly doing at the moment.

Anyway, back to my first session. My passes are wayward – although in my defence, once I passed to a man from the other team because he was wearing green and I thought it was red (I’m colour-blind). My touch is heavy, though.

This is not helped by my footwear. I have not prepared for this – I am wearing three-year-old running shoes, both of which have a hole at the end of the big toe. I am tackled by one of the aforementioned ‘youngsters’ and he apologises as his foot comes into contact with mine. “Sorry, have I just made that hole?” he asks sheepishly. “No,” I reply. “I just need some new trainers.”

I start to warm to the characters I am up against. There’s Dave, who has a broad South Yorkshire accent. “Give it ere” he keeps saying. He is an industrious and competitive, probably a very decent footballer in his day.

Then there is Pauline who lurks menacingly on the wing – she looks like everyone's favourite gran, but is actually a formidable opponent. None shall pass is her philosophy.

I start to improve as the game goes on. Come to think of it, us ‘oldies’ start to compete a bit more against the fortysomethings. I trap the ball quite well and shoot powerfully at goal (“great shot” rings out). A great shot, yes, but also accompanied by a shooting pain (literally) up my spine. Am I too old for this? Or should I just calm down?

I soon realise that kicking a football uses muscles you would not use for anything else in life. And that those muscles don’t like being reawakened from their slumber – they figure they deserve a rest as they were in constant use for about 20 years of my life.

From as soon as I could walk, I was kicking a ball. In the park, at school, in the street, in the back garden, on the beach. And when it was too dark or too wet to be outside, I would kick a balloon around the house in an imaginary slow-motion game, with the dining room transformed in my head into Boothferry Park (former home of Hull City). There would be towering headers and powerful volleys against the French doors. And glory as the ecstatic, invisible crowd cheered every goal.

And on this autumnal Tuesday evening, with darkening skies and brightening floodlights, I am taken back to those glory, glory childhood days, the dream only interrupted by Arnie, the young coach who runs the sessions, who says it’s half-time and asks for everyone to hand over £5.

I fade slightly in the second-half, probably overdoing it a little as I sprint for a ball which has gone past the goal and travelled about 50 yards to the fence.

Pace yourself, I say, but I don’t listen.

The result, of course, doesn’t matter. My side has lost 8-3. The result does matter. It takes me a good 24 hours to come to terms with the defeat.

Hands are shaken at the end of the match, then it’s back to the reality of being middle-aged again. The aches, the pains, the responsibilities of work and family.

But for an hour I had been young again – a footballer, a sportsman – and not an old git. 

Walking football – three golden rules

1. No running!

2. Ball should not go above head height.

3. It's a non-contact sport.