Am I Alex Frei In Disguise

The match had entered the last minute, with both teams deadlocked in a high-scoring game that looked destined to finish with honours even. My team surged forward and just for a moment it looked as though a teammate might nick it, but just as he pulled the trigger, his shot was blocked.

The ball seemed to spin loose, in my direction, in slow motion. I knew exactly what I needed to do. With the outside of my right foot, I struck the ball with a sweetness that would make Ronaldo proud, but just as it left my foot, something happened to my ankle.

The cracking noise was heard all around the stadium, reverberating off the giant stands like a gunshot. I tumbled to the floor, and the last thing I saw as I crashed to the ground was the ball smacking into the top corner of the net. I’d done it.

On the floor, things were not so good. I appeared to have someone’s fist attached to the side of where my ankle would normally end. My teammates crowded around in obvious distress. The ballboy had turned away in horror. Through the pain, I heard Roy Keane vomiting close by. But through the agony, through the mist, I knew that no matter what, we’d won the game.*

And yet despite that, as the elation wore off, I realised that although the show would go on for my teammates, my tournament was over.

Here’s a picture of me taken just after the final whistle:

                                            

Right, okay, I confess – none of the above actually happened. No last-minute goal, no stadium, no Roy Keane, no vomming ballboys. I made it all up. That’s not even me in that picture! It’s David Beckham! Imagine that. But wait, I have fractured my ankle. Playing football. With the last kick of the fucking session. from a standing start. In the warm-down. What a joke! I wasn’t even trying anything elaborate, like a Cruyff turn. I know my limitations – a Cruyff turn would probably result in something like this:

                   

But the bottom line is, my leg is in plaster and it looks as though my tournament really is over – god knows how I’m going to get to the pub like this. Never mind attempt to use crutches after a few pints.

It’s a bit of a disaster. Maybe this is god’s revenge after I missed the first 70 minutes of Portugal v Germany the other night (which looked a belter). Sorry god. But after spending Too Bloody Long in A&E yesterday evening, I did get home for the end of Turkey v Croatia – 116 minutes on the clock when I switched on. Awesome! Extrapolate that out and if I’d watched from the start it’d have finished about 45-46.

You’ve really got to love Turkey. They’re in the semifinals and they’ve led for a total of 4 minutes throughout the tournament – both of those in stoppage time against the Czechs and the Swiss. I spoke to a very hungover German colleague yesterday who was itching for a go against the Turks (rather than revenge against the Croats, which seemed odd) and he’s now going to get his wish. It would be brilliant if they dumped Germany out, although a Germany vs Holland/Spain/Italy final would be magnificent.

Look, whilst I’m very pissed off that this has happened, with one week to go and in the height of summer (well, sorta), I’m going to find a way around it. The first step tonight is to relocate from watching it in the pub to watching it at home… with Dutch beer and, um, chips in mayo. They fucking drown ‘em in that shit.

Well, that’s the plan anyway. Hup Holland. My tournament will go on, it will just be a lot less interesting for me and for anyone reading this hoping for tips on good places to go in London. I guess you can all bugger off back to your dayjobs now.

Here’s me being led away by consoling teammates.

                  #

*Partial writing credit to the missus.