People think that if we are professional footballers, we are rich. We get to drive a Range Rover, wear designer clothes and be part of brand ads, which is true but for the 1% among us. The rest of us are playing in shadows, and you might have never heard our names either.

I’m a centre-back for a club you’ve probably never watched unless you’re local. We play in League Two. Our games are usually broadcasted on dodgy streams, very rarely making it to the papers unless there’s a brawl or a big FA Cup upset. Dont think I’m complaining; I’m fortunate to be here and do what I love. But it’s also far from glamour.

My morning usually starts with porridge, not paparazzi. We train in the rain and wind and on pitches so rough you’d think they were public parks. Some days, we share our training grounds with youth teams and local community sessions. Our physio is a magician with a tape and always has ibuprofen on him. When we travel for away games, we do it in cramped coaches, eating soggy pasta from plastic boxes.

And the money, it’s okay. It’s better than minimum wage, but not enough to retire on. You budget carefully, and if youre smart, you put something away or do your coaching badges on the side. I know so many players who work part-time during off-seasons. One lad from my old team runs a plumbing business on the side. That is the reality for us.

But we still feel the pressure. Maybe more than we ever want to, because every game matters not just for the table but for the renewal of contracts, for the scouts in the stands and for the chance to maybe move up the ladder. We are constantly aware that kids are coming up through the academy, and they are a lot younger, faster and cheaper.

Still, there’s something pure about it. No egos. No entourages. Just lads who love the game and play because it’s in their blood. We know each other’s stories. We know who’s struggling with family stuff, who’s fighting through injury, who’s been dropped and still shows up with a good attitude. The crowds may be smaller, but they’re loyal. When you see a 12-year-old in your shirt in the stands shouting your name, it hits differently. You don’t play for fame. You play for that.

I’m not a star. I’m a footballer. And while I might not make the headlines, I give everything I have every Saturday. And for now, that’s more than enough.