Leather
The idea was one
player to beat the other and crack in a goal past the club's two senior
keepers, who took turns in the net.
Needless to say I did
neither. My throat was leather, my legs lead, and my head concrete, as
we trudged across to a set of cones at 10-yard intervals.
Sprinting backwards
and forwards up the course was torture the first two times, but my legs
were walking through quicksand on the third, and nearly went on strike
when manager Graham spat. "I'm timing you this time."
I was the last to go
and he said I hadn't done too badly, but as I looked up the rest were
already downing drinks of weak orange squash 50 yards away.
The afternoon session
was easier. After the warm-up laps and stretches, of course, we did more
ball work. Then a couple of five-a-side matches when your intrepid
reporter shone by striking two excellent goals from more than two yards
from the net.
And I had the audacity
to ask burly Kevin Bremner if he was hurt in a tackle. He laughed, but
my leg sported his "autograph" the next day. All the lads
privately admit training is "boring, repetitive" stuff, but it
must he done and there are no shirkers.
All players are
competitive - stretching for the line in the sprints and asking for
extra-time when the five-a-side finishes level. Pre-season training is
the worst, they say, lasting up to four hours, six days a week. No
wonder they are happy when a well-practiced strategy results in a goal.
I went into the Lion's
den and came out intact, but my ego was quickly burst by dead-pan Paul
Sansome. He looked genuinely upset as he walked towards the dressing
room, saying, "You should have been here yesterday. We did nearly
an hour longer. It was boiling hot and ...."
