When I was a lad, plying my trade in the Jersey Under 15's football league, I was a reliable left back for my home Parish, Grouville. In the spring of 1995, we went on a cup run that took us to a prestigious final at Jersey's answer to Wembley; Springfield Stadium.
I was as excited as an England fast bowler, marking out his run up against a West Indies middle order batsman, but my cup final dream was to turn into a nightmare. Martin Roberts, a nippy left winger, nippier than me anyway, had forced his way into the reckoning and Robbo, our coach, looking for more attacking flare in the final, delivered the news I dreaded just an hour before kick-off:
"Marty' starts, sorry Tom!"
This of course was before terms like "rotation" and "managing your resources" we're part of sporting vernacular, this was simply a question of who was the best player, and I lost out. Boo Hoo!
I was as excited as an England fast bowler, marking out his run up against a West Indies middle order batsman, but my cup final dream was to turn into a nightmare. Martin Roberts, a nippy left winger, nippier than me anyway, had forced his way into the reckoning and Robbo, our coach, looking for more attacking flare in the final, delivered the news I dreaded just an hour before kick-off:
"Marty' starts, sorry Tom!"
This of course was before terms like "rotation" and "managing your resources" we're part of sporting vernacular, this was simply a question of who was the best player, and I lost out. Boo Hoo!