Broken Dream Theatre, Part 2: Footballer

Today, you’re getting the goods. Never has there been a better marriage of messenger and message than this weightily-dubbed series. To say that this series is the blog’s magnum opus is an insult of I Am Legend-proportions. This is its Magnum Force, its unloading a pulse rifle clip into the face of indifference.

We’ve all had dreams. Some have more than others. I fall into the latter category. Over the course of the coming posts I aim to prove beyond all doubt that I am living evidence that a jack of all trades masters none.

Note: as I am, at the time of writing, still alive (and 22), it’s problematic to decree any dream “broken” as in permanently caput, defunct, or dead, even if it feels justified in my current state of pessimism. For this reason, the list shall take the form of a prosaic hospital ward with me, the ‘doctor’, ushering you, the ‘reader’, through the ‘ward’, assessing the dire straits of its many ‘patients.’

--

Broken Dream: Footballer
Dream Breaker/s: doubt, fear, other interests, my lack of the goods.
Dream Status: Coma’d.
Heartbreak rating: World-Class

This post has easily been the hardest to write. Strange, as it’s not my number one “broken dream.”* I realize that football isn’t a passion shared by all of my peers. That said, I present a harsher than usual edit, the Aliens theatrical cut of Ian articles.

If you grow up in certain places, football becomes more than a game. It is part of you. Northern Ireland is one such place. From the time kids here are old enough to stand, they’re kicking. They’re kicking everything in reach, until they’re old enough to stroke a ball around the street, local park, or nearest school. Anywhere decent. Anywhere cars or neighbours aren’t constantly interrupting. Even when many of these same kids start kicking other kids around the street on alcopop induced highs, they’re still at it. The game’s beauty lies in its simplicity. If you’ve got a football, you’re away. There’s no need for extraneous equipment or players. When the ball’s at your feet, all that separates you from the theatre of your particular dreams is imagination.

1998 was a big year for me. I started high school. Amongst other things, I fell in love with football. I’d enjoyed it before then (mostly playing it personally or watching international matches) but never like that. I haven’t thought about in donkeys, but, for a time, I was poised. A rare John Hughes moment saw me rushing to tell my family how I’d “made the team.” That said team was “B” is irrelevant. If school squads were regulation size I might well have snuck onto the A-team bench for “the championship game” or some equally Rudy/‘One Tree Hill’ moment.** Even though my football career proved more Diego Forlan than Wayne Rooney, I’ll always fondly regard that moment, both for the possibilities it represented and the fantasy wiggle room it provides.

You know when you’re in the company of real football fans. I’m not talking about the kind of track-suited numpties who exist only to glower and menace society. I’m talking about the football nerds, the kind of cats who can tell you where the Scudetto is headed or who’s managed Red Star Belgrade for the last three seasons. In their company, you will become fast-friends. You will discuss clubs, bonding regardless of shared allegiances, you will argue over Pro Evolution and FIFA, and you will talk about your own ‘career.’ Not your day job, your other career.

While writing, a number of potential career trajectories and mirror universes amused me. Ever the jugular grabber, instinct first led me on a path of unparalleled glory. I was a Manchester United striker. And a prolific goal-scorer at that… for club and country. Northern Ireland were making it to World Cups on my back. Endorsement deals were landing on my doorstep enough times to give Rod Tidwell a heart-attack. And on and on.

Before long, blue-sky casting got old. Playing for an Irish league team would’ve more than sated this soccer ambition. Had I got my freshman finger out way back when, it wouldn’t have been beyond the realm of possibility either. I’m no Spike Ferguson, but then again, not everyone has prompted an opposing player to remark “he doesn’t miss!”*** I may be lightweight, even for a “forward”, but I mix it anyway. More than enough to pose a threat to some of the chancers who ply their trade in the local game. And physicality you can always work on, build up.**** The seed of a half-decent player was/is there. It just never got watered.

Alas, that gap in the market for a poor man's Dennis Bergkamp goes unfulfilled.

If a blue-skinned Robin Williams offered me the world in a hand-cart, I’d see what else he had in the trolley. I would. When the sky’s the limit, who wants to live with their head in the clouds? Hollywood endings are a blast for pub-chat purposes, but restraint is where its really at. Leading a less than box-office life for long enough will do that to you. Unlike Bright Lights Big City summer transfers and all that jazz, 5 a-side on waterlogged astro turf never loses its luster.

* See part one for all your wallowing needs.
** Fans of the latter should watch the former immediately.
*** Stephen Maxwell, I thank you.
**** I hope you’re taking notes, Kyle Lafferty.

--

Ian Pratt could regale you with the tale of that lob he scored two weeks ago, but you’ve suffered enough for one post. Anyway, it was a beaut.