Last

We’ve reached the point where everything seems to be the last at the moment. The last time that we see friends, the last time that Emily has attended kindy, the last time that we get to visit some of our favourite places (well at least the last for now).

Saturday was my last soccer game for the club that I’ve spent the last 12 years at and it surprised me just how emotional it was. My soccer career faces an uncertain future as we head to Canada as it will have to compete against a host of other priorities; priorities against which it probably won’t stack up against too well.

Four weeks ago I wasn’t sure when my last game would be, primarily because with the way that my body has been treating me this year in regards to injury, any game that I played could have been my last. But I dearly wanted to be able to walk onto the pitch and say, “This is it. This is the last one,” rather than have to point backwards in time and say, “That game where I tore my hamstring/groin/calf/, that was my last game.”

So I was thankful that I was in fact able to do it. I ruled out playing the game that’s on this weekend, the day before we fly out because I didn’t particularly like the prospect of 13.5 hours on a plane with my family and a brand new sporting injury.

So on the final day as I sat on the ‘old bastards bench’ getting changed for the day, the strips were pulled out and I waited until number 8 came along. Now my association with number 8 isn’t that steeped in history, it’s a fairly recent phenomenon that stems back to a bitterly cold day in the Adelaide Hills where I realised that the white number 8 shirt had long sleeves. And given the day in question was hovering somewhere around the single figure mark in terms of temperature, it seemed like a good thing to me.

From then on, regardless of whether we were in our blue or our white strip, I took number 8 so that whenever the temperature took a dip and we were in white, I got to wear the long sleeves.

So Saturday rolled around and our boys were wearing white. I was quite pleased that I’d get to close out my career with the long sleeved number 8 on my back.

As the shirts were passed out, I waited for number 8 to emerge from the kit bag. It didn’t happen. I stood up and became part of the sorting process, but after some 3 attempts at rummaging through, it became clear that the shirt that I dearly wanted to wear for my last game had gone missing.

Someone suggested that Paddy had it on and I walked out muttering something about the violent and intentional homicide that I was about to exact upon his body in order to retrieve the shirt. Fortunately, as I walked out and saw that he was indeed wearing number 8, he moved his arms and revealed short sleeves … it was the reserve strip.

Moments later it was announced that we were going to play in the blue strip and it all became irrelevant, but I donned the number 8 anyway.

The game was a success. We won, I scored our first goal during my last game and fittingly, with some 15 minutes to go, felt the slightest of twinges in my hamstring and asked to be removed from the pitch.

I was moved more than I thought I would have been when I came off the pitch to a standing ovation from a larger number of people than I would have expected.

It is even more moving when the people that you respect at the club have really nice things to say to you when you’re departing, because its always nice to think that you’ve managed to have a positive influence on a group of people that you respect.

And to top it all off, during drinks at the pub after the game, I was presented with a token of appreciation from the guys … one signed, long sleeved white number 8 strip, nicked from the club.

Classic.