On the crest of this quiet, Cornish, country lane there is a
bridge over the Western Region main line out of Penzance. It is one of many
locations where, through the years, I have been responsible for losing the
football. In this case, in August 1971, it sailed into impenetrable brambles
half-way down the side of the railway embankment.
The lads who still tolerate my eager participation
in 5-a-side on Thursday evenings have inevitably put my wayward shooting down
to advancing age - and more particularly, knees without cartilage, slowing
reactions, short, bandy legs, “ten to two” feet and poor eyesight. The truth is
that I have always been good at getting into goal scoring positions but crap at
actually shooting accurately. Consequently, in the second picture, taken in a
car park in Scotland in April 1972 [we had a lot of impromptu kick arounds in
car parks], the photographer was never in danger of receiving the ball full in
the face, though any number of parked cars were obviously vulnerable.
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