The highs and lows of walking football

"D-D-Disappointing," I say as I stand shivering on a cold and windy December evening.

"Someone's cocked up," says a fellow would-be footballer.

I say "would-be" because tonight, despite the fact we have all arrived at the pre-ordained sporting facility in good time dressed in our best footballing clobber, there will be no football.

No flashes of brilliance, no oohs and aahs at near-misses, no "well played" or "good shot".

It's a subdued mood. There are a few attempts at humour, but we know the fickle finger of fate is pointing us towards going back to the car park.

We realise the writing is on the wall when the caretaker of the nearby school arrives to tell us he can't open up the facilities which actually belong to said school becuase he "can't make that decision".

Our two young organisers are at breaking point, their calls to people who might be able to help unanswered.

You can only score in the small goal!
 They're embarrassed, apologetic – but it's not their fault. They'd rather be joining in the game than partaking in this pointless admin task suddenly forced upon them.

It's a far cry from the previous week - a match filled with goals, incident and a fair share of comical attempts at scoring.

Personally, I had felt on top of the world, dribbling around two defenders at one point and slotting the ball home. This in stark contrast to a few minutes earlier, when I had missed an open goal from about two feet.

My calf injury from the previous week had cleared up – thanks to me finally listening to my wife telling me to do a proper stretch before the big game – and I felt that my footballing age had lowered a little.

Footballing age? Wel, that's something I've literally just made up really - it's how old I feel when I'm playing.

For the first session six weeks ago, about 65 (I'm actually 59), but last week it was more 42 I'd say.

Carry on like this and I'll be a sullen teenager come next summer!

"Sorry, we're going to have to cancel."

Ah well, that's life I suppose, 12 men and women of a certain age are receiving the official news that tonight's session is cancelled.

We drudge wearily away – "pub anyone?", says one. But somehow our spirit has been broken and excuses are made.

One of the highlights of my week has been denied from me – courtesy of some miscommunication and an unco-operative school operative.

And the worst part is, because of Christmas and New Year, it's three weeks until the next session.

But we'll return, keen as ever, though possibly a few pounds heavier.

There will be personal triumphs, there will be injuries, there will be aches and pains aplenty.

But there'll also be laughter and a certain amount of gently ribbing.

As I arrive home, there is a message on the WhatsApp group about the following day's daytime session (which I never make because of work commitments).

"Windy tomorrow guys, don't forget the Evostick for your wigs."

...And that why I love walking football.

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