Juggling with a football was a means to waste a considerable portion of my childhood. I can only therefore express complete admiration for the recent exploits of a football freestyler who completed a record breaking 'longest distance journey whilst juggling a football' from Wembley Stadium to Old Trafford, Manchester. The statistics are incomprehensible. Approaching 200 miles distance, 400,000 steps and over half million keepie uppies over the ten day duration.
The pursuit of a personal best record for Keepie Uppies becomes a bit obsessive and sad. I well know, from experience that it is a lonely quest out in the back garden, on the patio, down the park or just in the street.
It starts in an idle moment.
Perhaps the football, kicked against a wall, bounces back at just the right height and velocity to be tee'd up and then it falls back onto your bovver boots to attain the first ever count of 'One'. The challenge is on. It may take a few further hours to get to that elusive 'Two' but having done so you can go indoors and watch some television.
If there is anything left of the day then before bedtime in the summer months or under the outdoor light the rest of the year a few minutes can be stolen to improve on the record to date. Tiredness, over-compensating for the poorer light, or just adverse weather conditions will all contribute to failure on such an occasion. The feeling of disappointment on climbing into your bed is tangible and eats away at your very soul.
There may be some respite the following morning if it is snowing, raining or howling a gale but anything less in climatic conditions makes it absolutely necessary to try again. Ground conditions also play their part in thwarting an attempt on the record of 'Two'. A divot, twig or stone in the lawn can deflect the ball away from your foot, even though the trajectory and pace are nicely set up for a 'Three'.
On the patio, a pivoting paver or where the ball straddles a joint between the slabs can be similarly disastrous. In frustration the ball can be booted away into next doors garden or over the back hedge into the farmers field. A cheap plastic football, when caught on a rose bush in the border, can give out an horrendous sound of escaping air in simulation of the very last gasp from your own deflated ego.
It is so easy to just try too hard to get to a 'Three'. A more carefree and casual, non-plussed approach to keepie uppies can often surprise and I once ran indoors and announced to the whole assembled family that I had got to a 'Three, Four and Five' in one such informal go. This was not in any good style or method but it was undeniably a 'Five'. Invariably, there were no witnesses apart from the neighbours chihuahua who pressed its diminuitive nose against the fence as though wanting to join in. It would be some months before that personal best would be bettered.
A 'Five' was however presentable and worth mentioning to friends who would gasp and swear in either admiration, disbelief or derision. There would be that golden moment when someone would actually see you equal and then nearly break the record.
My grandad Dick taught me a few tricks with a football as he would tell the story of how he had a trial with his local team when he was a lad. He showed me how to kick the ball with the outside of the foot to create a wicked swerving and twisting shot that would leave my friend Anthony Whitbread standing forlonly between the pile of jumpers and coats as goal posts not knowing which way he had to dive to intercept the attempt on goal. Being a kind grandad he never tried to keepie uppy because he knew that he would shatter my personal best and my fragile confidence with ease and panache.
I seem to think that I never actually reached more than a 'Five' as a child. As a father myself I spent a good few hours in the garden with The Boy trying to reach a ridiculous target for Keepie Uppies that was doomed to failure. Only the looming darkness as the halogen bulb on the garage mounted security light burnt out in a flash of flame permitted a legitimate reason to give up for that particular day.
The temptation to juggle a football still however persists. This can be embarassing at the local recreation ground when walking the dog if the kids shout "Hey, Mister, can you give us our ball back' , as it comes my way. I should just boot it back, grandad Dick style, but cannot resist a tee-up, juggle and volley. This scenario is acted out in my mind to great success but in reality I mis-kick, fall over and pull a muscle to the accompanying sound of laughter and ridicule. The dog looks on faithfully bemused and hoping that my antics are the start of a more interesting day out after a rather boring drag around the field.
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