Weekend: A half-time teamtalk in the changing room of life

Not for me the exuberance of youth, spinning down the wing, all fancy footwork and twinkly toes.

I'm old. Grizzled. Knackered, largely.

Thrown myself into too many unwinnable tackles.

Bryan Robson, if you're old enough.

Stevie G, if you're not.

So a chance to plonk myself down in the changing room of life and see how we got on 'early doors', as Big Ron might say.

Well, I've scored a (big) new job . . . but life has equalised after running riot through the middle of my bank account and scorching a massive mortgage into the top corner.

A nasty opponent called divorce has given me a heavy knock around the groin area, but in the best tradition of old school battlers, I'm running it off.

(My own fault. It started off as a straight 50-50, but ended up as 70-30. Nasty challenge, that.)

Not that I'm bitter. I'm not the first to have one disallowed after thinking I'd hit the back of the net. And all the shin pads in the world can't prevent the odd heartbreak.

Or even a smack in the chops from the hand of God.

Why am I telling you all this?

Well, boss, when Saturday comes I want us to be a regular fixture.

Season-ticket holders, home and away. You and me (maybe Jeff later); the perfect match.

Keeping right on to the end of the road where we'll blow bubbles, boing about and never walk alone because we're in this together.

Heroes, villains, ex-husbands and wives.

We're everywhere and nowhere, ay we?

Whether you're a Wolves widow or a football stud, everyone's hit the bar or taken a dive or been shown the red card.

Think back through the muddy pitches of life and we've all gone for an outrageous chip at some point; sometimes it's drifted over the keeper's head and the spectators have roared. Boom! Genius.

Others have flopped into his hands and made you look stupid. Boo! Idiot.

But if you've not eaten all the pies at some point by now, what have you been doing with yourself? (Don't answer that, Jason Manford.)

So my middle-aged team-mates, the second half is about to begin and we need to look back at our gameplan in the first 45.

Have we worked hard enough? Have we been caught offside too much? Is it time to bring on a sub?

Most of all, have we enjoyed it?

Frankly Mr Shankly, my answer is yes.

Without sounding like one of those vom-inducing internet slogans, I've done what I wanted to do, laughed a lot, loved a lot and I wouldn't change a thing.

Which isn't bad as I head out in search of more unwinnable tackles, midlife battles and hopefully the odd tap-in.

Yes, the crowd's gone mild and some people think it's all over, but I'm still looking for an action replay, thanks very much.

So rinse out your magic sponge and patch up my aching limbs, ready to go again.

Let's roll back our sleeves, get stuck in and believe we can still go up.

Because when we get down to the last 10, I guarantee we'll all be praying for time.

Read Keith Harrison first in the new Weekend Express & Star, every Saturday.