Those who frequent Twitter may have noticed a series hashtags or references to "Sunset Season", or something equally vague.  These point to a personal journey wherein I have returned to bottom-flight football in a manner not-exactly mirroring Paul Scholes (though as I did it first, technically he copied me).  Here then, I have charted the rather circuitous journey in to and exiting football and my completely un-tumultuous return.

So, I was never going to set the world alight in the sporting sense, not an over-achiever by any stretch of the imagination, no county representation in any sport while at school and certainly no chance of pursuing an amateur or pro career.  In fact I was a late-entrant to the Beautiful Game with a sojourn in my late teens/early-20s through Rugby Union.  The inevitable switch occurred at the age of 23 - I considered myself a better footballer - whereupon I joined a local club on the recommendation of a friend - in the sense he 'scouted' for them and suggested I should go along.  Unsurprisingly this was in a lowly-placed club in the melee that is Sunday League football, nevertheless I established myself as first-choice left-back and was quite impressed with myself.

Fast-forward a season-and-a-half and I get a bugger-all-money transfer to a club in a higher division of the same league where two seasons were spent as understudy full-back.  Good enough, I told myself, the team play good football and I was rubbing shoulders with some decent players.  Stayed with the same group of players for the next 5 seasons and two further teams, all much the same standard, some runs as first-choice in certain positions, until inexplicably one year the team folded. Luckily one of the former clubs was short so I re-joined and enjoyed possibly my greatest spell in the sport as a kind of holding midfielder, breaking up play and initiating the team's offensive bursts.  Goals flowed from the penalty spot, mostly because for the first one nobody else wanted it and I stepped up - I didn't miss any. 

However real-life took over at this point and football sadly was the first thing to go, following a change in circumstances.  Then children, which extended the gap.

Some fifteen years after my introduction to the sport, I contemplate going back.  Start some exercise.  Get the bicycle out.  Up the tempo.  However, disaster strikes and I wind up in A&E in screaming agony when two of my vertebral discs pop out trapping the nerves.  Bugger.  Signed-off work for a month and experimented upon by GPs with 'conservative treatments', I wonder if this is to be the shape of my life from here.

Narrowly-avoiding surgery to correct the issue, I opt for a steroid epidural which six-months later sees me able to walk without a noticeable limp.  A year following the injury, including a twelve-week physiotherapy course and everything feels about normal.  Again thoughts turn to whether or not a return can be made.  Surely not...following such an injury and with a 40th birthday approaching?

Summer 2011 [May actually], and a local (reserve) team advertises for players.  A phone call later and I'm in and at next week's laughably-labelled "training" session, I'm in a hastily-assembled XI against a similarly-hastily-assembled XI.  I find I'm definitely lacking in pace in the event and quite sore the next day.  Next week however, it gets interesting.  The 'manager' who is probably a whole "person who can drink" younger than me, drafts in a coach.

"Coach" proceeds to rip into these guys with some serious fitness training, which is great news for me, thinking "at least I'll improve my fitness".  So I stick around.  One session a week becomes two, and these stretch to 2-3 hours a time.  Within weeks I'm finding that soreness only lasts a day instead of the whole week.  Still keeping up with the lads - and I find I'm twelve years older than the next-eldest - we have bleep tests, 8-mile runs, you name it, I'm all over it like a rash.  

Come the start of the season (we're in sight of September) I'm up for it.  Best physical shape in ten years and raring to go.  Playing the football the gaffer wants and alongside a great bunch of lads.  The pre-season friendlies come and go, perhaps six of them, weekends and midweek.  I get 45 minutes football, tops.  Sign-up time.  Except "coach" has other ideas, and I'm offered back-up goalkeeper.  WTF?!?!?!?  Bloke doesn't even have the decency to tell me he thinks I'm over-the-hill but clearly it is implied.

I give it a month of the regular season before I decide I can still cut it.  Back to the message boards and another team looking so I drop them a line and they invite me to play a friendly.  Ninety minutes at full-back, "can you sign for us and play next week?".  Music to my ears.  Thank you very much.

This was late-September 2011, the journey continues.