I keep a journal of memories.
I'm feeling lonely. I can't breathe.
Fall to pieces, I'm falling.
Fell to pieces and I'm still falling...
— Velvet Revolver
If football is life and I have been alive again these last couple of months then I've forgotten one of football's most important lessons: bruises, injuries, and failures are all part of the game.
Just because we hurt a little— sometimes, a lot— doesn't mean we have to give up. We grow tried, we get frustrated with the pitch, our team mates, with how well the opposition plays, and how intensely their friends taunt us. But we endure and we never give anything except our very best.
In times when nothing seems to be going our way, we can always get ourselves subbed-out. However, if we do that, there is no coming back.
Last week, I was thinking about getting subbed-out from wherever it is that I've found myself in. Went as far as to attempt to erase what may have been the few mistakes in the images and words that I've been posting on here. I've been afraid not about any negative feedback or ridicule or whatever. As I've said before, I just don't want to cause any trouble. But I realised that if there is going to be any trouble that will be caused by the way I express myself, it had already been caused. And making my posts private will not undo any of it.
I'm not subbing out. Maybe I'll end up like that Chelsea keeper who thought he'd be a hero when his boss thought otherwise, and ended up being a disgrace. Or maybe I'll end up making a couple of fine saves— the pain of falling on rock and sand be damned— and take, at least, one point home. I will continue. For the full ninety minutes and whatever sort of injury time the universe decides to give me.
Football is life.
If I can't play under the burning sun, I will play in the rain.