Here I sit again, staring out in despair, my third World Cup and I haven't moved from this position. At least my seat is warm, the guys around me keep getting up and running down the touch line. Each time, the heat from the bench dissipates into the night air.
These eleven on the pitch will be remembered, remembered for the fight they put in even if glory eludes them. What will I be remembered for? Nothing, just another player. In years to come they will forget I was even in the squad. I may as well be sat in the stands, the only bonus is that I did not need to pay for my front row seat. That said, sitting at home might have been better, a HD TV with multiple angles allowing me to see replays again and again so I can make up my mind on the referee’s controversial decisions. My wife would probably take pity on me for not being selected, she would bring cool drinks and snacks while I vegetated on the sofa.
No use thinking about that, I don’t want the TV cameras to pick up how bored I am. How disappointed I am. Stopping a footballer being on the pitch is like removing an actor from the stage, it is their soul, their passion, their life. How I secretly hope for an injury or for the team to get destroyed so the gaffer puts me on as something a little different. It would be better if we were five nil up so he rested players, but we are not good enough for that and thus I am not needed.
No, once again I am sat here. As always, sat here in the wind, sat here in the sun, sat here in rain. It is my lot in life. I am a hero to my club but not my country. Another player with a few caps and nothing more. Maybe I should have brought a book, no that would break the stereotype that footballers could read. Oh well, I’ll be back home in a few days the way these guys are playing.