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was a Souness-like hardman midfielder and captain of the Bentham United Reserves, and the only one to shake hands with me.

      “‘Ear yer can play a bit.”

      “Used to,” I said, inwardly weeping at the vocalisation of retirement.

      “Used to, bollocks,” scoffed Jaffa. “Yer did alright this afternoon. Kept two outta three out.”

      “Actually, it was three out of three.”

      “Fahk off,” laughed Jaffa.

      Another name I noted was Dennis: a tallish, blondish bloke who played left half for the first team and was also a chemistry grad who’d done nine months for possession of laboratory paraphernalia and precursor chemicals. Dennis just sort of nodded vacantly in a manner that could have been either a polite acknowledgment of my presence, or an answer to voices within.

      Then, two skinny Latin types sauntered over, exuding all the natural arrogance and style of their race.

      “This is the Santos brothers: Juan Pablo and Juan Marco,” introduced Jaffa.

      Jaffa had told me about these blokes too: fantastic ball players but incorrigible thieves and pants men. No-one ever knew for sure that they’d turn up for a match, and they didn’t look like brothers. And upon being introduced to a stranger seemed a trifle furtive.

      “You’re brothers?” I asked.

      They looked at each other.

      “Si,” said Juan Pablo.

      “And you’re both called Juan?”

      They looked at each other again.

      “Our family ees verra close,” explained Juan Marco.

      The first grade goalkeeper was Charlie, known as Charlie the Cat. He was off with the reserve keeper, Col Cochrane (Cockie) going through some of the same stretches as I had always done before training, and I was suddenly itching to join them. But at that moment, the laughter and banter stopped as a bloke in his late fifties or early sixties strode into our midst.

      “What the fack is this?” he exclaimed in exasperated cockney. “It’s gone ‘alf-fahkin’-past and yer still gas-baggin’!”

      Without another word, the entire group took off on the traditional warm-up laps, with the exception of me and Jaffa.

      “Awright, Ronnie?” asked Jaffa.

      “Oo the fahk is this?” responded Ron Wellard, the Bentham manager, as I tentatively held out my hand.

      “Eric Judd, from Australia,” I replied.

      “What you want?”

      “‘E’s come to train,” said Jaffa.

      “If that’s okay,” I added.

      “Train? Yer fahkin’ older than me mate,” said Ronnie, then waved a dismissive hand at us. “Well fahk off then. Four laps, Jaffa.”

      “Come on,” said Jaffa, shoving me in the direction of the other blokes, and still not entirely sure whether I’d been given permission (“fuck off” could be so ambiguous), I trailed after Jaffa - plodding along and immediately feeling the ill-effects of jetlag and bugger all training over the weeks of my recovery from the back injury.

      At the end of the first lap, I was already puffing. Jaffa had sprinted ahead to join the others, but two of them dropped back and nodded at me, plodding alongside for half a lap. These two definitely were brothers - Billy and Gareth - nephews of Mervyn, so doubtless also members of the Irish mafia that seemed to infest this part of London.

      “Jaffa tells us yer ‘ad a bit o’ bother today,” said Gareth.

      Billy and Gareth were both young and fit, and very hard. Billy would’ve been six foot and Gareth slightly older and shorter, and for all my expertise with my fists, I wouldn’t have liked taking on either of ‘em.

      “Just a bit,” I puffed, not wanting to have to talk too much with two and a half laps to go.

      “Blue Fury?” asked Billy.

      “Think so.”

      We plodded on for another half lap or so.

      “Mervyn’ll wanna see yer later … back at the club,” advised Gareth, and the two of them sped up again, leaving me to finish as best I could. In fact, I was lapped by the main group at the end of three laps, so that seemed like enough. But instead of standing around stretching - getting a breather like I’d always done in the past - it was straight into sprint work. We took off in threes, at intervals of five seconds, sprinting twenty meters and then jogging back to the end of the line to go again. There were about 30 at training so you had a breather of about 20 seconds before you had to sprint.

      It was never enough. After ten sprints I was fucked and just about to quit when Trevor muttered to me:

      “Come on mate, there’s only two more. We do everythin’ by fours yeah?”

      It was enough to push me for two more sprints and, sure enough, Ronnie told us to stop. But the torment wasn’t over - not by a long shot. We went through four laps of circuit work and didn’t even see a football, but I started to feel good. This was training - in England, the home of football. The city, the team and the locale were strange, but the steaming breath and the tang of liniment and sweat were so familiar. I started to relax and enjoy myself, but hoped to see some ball work.

      Eventually, Ronnie told us to stretch for a few minutes while he talked about the coming Saturday’s game against Havant & Waterlooville, then concluded by letting us know that: “Fahkin’ Chris Wyndham has got ‘imself busted again.”

      There were a few chuckles but Col Cochrane swore. And I gathered that, as Col sat on the bench for first grade, Chris Wyndham was the youth team keeper who sat on the bench for reserves.

      Before I could stop him, Jaffa had piped up: “Eric’s a keeper. Not bad either.”

      Ronnie’s look was withering.

      “We got no space in this side for unregistered, Aussie geriatrics. We’ll take young Philip from the 17s.”

      So that was that: another rejection. I finished the training session and even spent a bit of time with Charlie and Cockie. They both had a bit of skill, especially Charlie, but I knew they weren’t in my league. In any case, I was happy enough to train. It was quite unrealistic to hope to play when it was halfway through the season.

      The shed had one of those large communal showers and a procession of pink bodies emerged from the steam relieved of dirt and sweat and cruising with endorphins. By 8.00, we were all trooping down the road to the Sportsmen’s Club for dinner. I found myself talking to Trevor and Charlie, with Jaffa pissing us off with his fuckin’ cigarettes about five yards in front.

      “If yer packed in the fahkin’ cancer sticks yer’d be twice the player, mate,” moaned Trevor, but Jaffa was heedless of his ancient wisdom. Twenty-two year olds are immortal, after all.

      “I’m not fahkin’ kiddin’, mate,” repeated Trev. “You were fahkin’ nowhere in the last ten minutes on the weekend. We needed a goal an’ all.”

      “Fahkin’ bollocks,” retorted Jaffa. “I got us a fahkin’ goal, which is more ‘n anyone else did.”

      “You got us a goal in the first 15,” said Charlie, “an’ ‘ow many did yer miss? Yer don’t value the chances when they come.”

      “Twelve games, thirteen goals,” said Jaffa. “Some might say I’m carryin’ this side.”

      Trevor and Charlie just shook their heads as Jaffa pranced about up ahead with a couple of the younger blokes - also smokers but still full of energy.

      “Got a

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