Those who know me well are aware that a chunk of my childhood was spent on the football pitch. I wasn’t particularly good at the sport, especially at school, although I did have my moments.

I may have scored an important goal or two during my heyday, but it was of little significance. Because when you are on the pitch, it is who you are with that matters the most.

And I daresay that I was part of an enviable ensemble.

Some of them were tremendously talented. Others only took part to goof around. Some were very serious about practice games, others simply wanted to have a good time.

The world was an entirely different place when we were growing up. We rushed home from school and headed straight to the football pitch, playing until dusk engulfed the ball and we ended up bumping into each other.

Then life happened, and one fine day, the road to the football field closed forever.

Football was a big part of our growing up

When you are growing up, what you lack the most is foresight. Spending leisurely afternoons on the football pitch, we always imagined that life would remain the same forever. The ground would only be a few feet away. Friends would always meet up. We would always be together.

It’s like running through on goal, dodging the goalie with a body feint and preparing to shoot, only for the sweeper to slide into you and clear the ball.

Life seldom happens like we foresee, at least not for most of us.

The world has changed a lot over the past decade and a half. From playing football regularly, to intense practice on weekends, to now, when I rarely make it to the pitch once a month with my son.

As the football pitch of my childhood dissipated from my life, I lost a chunk of myself. Football, you see, remains a pivotal part of my life. It is the glue that holds me together, it is the reason for my sorrow and my elation.

And some of the best moments of my life were spent on afternoons on a lush green pitch.

I still write about football, I talk about football, and I think about football the entire day. Yet, I miss the adrenaline of running up and down the pitch, the joy of dribbling the opponent, the satisfaction of hitting a volley, or sending in a peach of a cross.

These were things that used to make our day once upon a time.

And so, when I walk past a group of children playing football, I inadvertently slow down. I feel their emotions, the rush of blood to their legs. The sparkle of their colourful shirts in the golden glaze of the fast-fading afternoon sun takes me back to many wonderful afternoons. The sound of their laughter ringing across the ground reminds me of my friends.

Once upon a time, I too had indulged in these earthly pleasures of life. I had sprinted through the grass and mud, rubbing shoulders with friends and compatriots, feeling at the top of the world.

The road to the football pitch is long closed, yet as I watch from the sidelines, I often discover a chunk of my childhood. For it lies nestled among the blades of grass, resting on the earthly aroma of the rain-drenched pitch, among the laughter of my friends, and the sound of the ball hitting the back of the net.

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