From Little O

Dear Max,

I’m feeling a wee bit nervous. It’s the Cup next week, and I’m getting that wobbly feeling in my legs again. Believe me, mate: it’s not a skill I’m perfecting.

I remember the way you used to play; floppy boned and agile, padding over the ball catlike with those Sunny Delight-sponsored Mizunos. Velcrofoot was not an exaggeration. I remember you rising for balls, and using that extra inch and lash of curls to lift or crush a team in an instant. Or dusting yourself off mildly annoyed when the opposition turned to frustrated ankle kicks in order to stop the rampage. But that just fired you up to dubs them even harder next time round, didn’t it? Would they taste the nutmeg? Be dummified by a shoulder drop? Outpaced on the straight? Nobody knew what was in store, but it was normally all three when I was on the receiving end. Though I seriously doubt there’s anyone who hasn’t been touched by this trinity at some point. And as we can all remember, it was distinctly more painful than returned kick up the arse.

But let’s not give you a big head to go with that statuesque Roman nose, now, because it wasn’t just you who could do stuff like that, if we’re honest. But you were definitely the only one who could make it look like they were drunk-in-charge-of-a-football. A cunning device that foxed almost all ball-kicking park life, by giving off the appearance that you were stumbling around the pitch a bit tipsy; a drunken master ploughing through lunging tackles (not to mention freaked out families on picnic blankets) with a Mitre firmly stuck to your toe⎯what an image! They say brilliance is always in bed with madness, my boy, and that will be visual proof in my mind forever.

To me, it seemed like your skills were a complete (and often envy inducing) expression of your natural character, played out with as much endless energy as everything else in your life. Don’t get me wrong, mate; I’m not calling you a park pisshead with superior ball control, I just believe that clever, passionate and flowing football⎯the kind that us boys have continued to play throughout the years⎯will always be a true reflection of our personalities. And yeah, I still run through life (and across the wings) like a headless chicken.

So with that in mind, I continue to miss your honesty, excitability, quick thinking, passion, mock stupidity, perseverance, awareness, cool and loud mouth shouting: “Yesss O!”s, on and off the pitch, and really, truly wish that you were still playing around on both. But you know, as much as I do, Max, that all the boys share that double life now and will continue to keep each one as tight and enjoyable as we can until we take up gardening. And even though there’ll be a few tough teams on the park next Saturday (giving me more than enough reason to be crapping myself silly right now) it’s your alter ego, Monsieur Velcrofoot, that will set the standard at kick off, and that will always be the hardest thing to beat.

Cheers for the skills, Max!

Little O
(Owain)