Home Page

Dear Sir: Retirement

Retirement

Last Sunday, my flatmates, Paul, William Curry and Simmons joined me for a thrilling game of Soccer in the park. We were playing Wembley Doubles, and Paul and Simmons faced William Curry and I, and over a half-hour match, Paul and Simmons defeated William Curry and I 19-17. I scored nine and created a further seven goals (the other being a comical effort involving William Curry’s traction engine of a foot, a small boy, a lucky deflection and a stern telling off from a deeply irritated mother).

After the game, however, I noticed that my breath took a peculiarly long time to get back. Normally, my physique and stamina is that of a grand-national winner - I recall one time when, as part of a national Olympic team, I travelled to a European nation who were, at the time, being slowly crushed by the iron fist of a fascist dictator whereupon I put that nation’s views of racial hierarchies to shame and returned home with several gold medals.

No, wait, that was Jesse Owens.

The point is, I have, until now, been supremely fit, toned and handsome. I am not usually accustomed to being short of breath after a rousing game of Soccer. Then I realised - it was my current involvement in Soccer at international level. Being internationally active was taking a direct toll on my fitness and stamina levels. Though it is always an honour to represent one’s country of birth in the international arena, there always comes a time when a sportsman has to sit back and think - country or playing in the park?

I’m not a young stallion of twenty-three any more - I’m twenty-five. I’m reaching that age where I can’t gallivant around the park fearlessly for thirty minutes, banging in goals and making crunching tackles, and then head off to London to stride out for my country, playing in that pivotal midfield role in a crucial game against the Germans. Thus, I realised that if I were to continue playing at a competitive level in the park, I would have to retire from international football.

It was with a heavy heart that I sat down at my typewriter tonight, and composed the hardest letter I would ever have to write, except for that one where I was trying to find a tactful way of telling my wife she had put on a few pounds recently and until she lost them, I would not allow her to sleep under my roof.