People are always curious about knowing what we do after training, assuming it’s massages and video games. Truth be told, after the final whistle, that’s when real life kicks in. At the same time, you are on the field, its focus, strategy, adrenaline, and game mode. But once that is done, you get back to your world and realize how much of life you miss.

I play in the third tier. Not glamorous. It’s not poor either, but you still worry about the future. I live in a rented flat and share it with a teammate to save costs. After training, I cook my own meals: pasta, rice, nothing fancy. Then it’s errands, stretching, checking in with my physio about a recurring ankle niggle, and sometimes, tutoring a kid from the academy for his GCSEs because the club asked me to help.

The hard part of being a footballer at this level is the waiting. You wait to see if your names are on the team sheet. Wait to hear if someone is willing to offer you a new deal. Waiting for the gaffer to tell you if you’ve got minutes or you’re warming the bench again.

Injuries change everything. A bad tackle in a cup match last season kept me out for three months. No income drop, thankfully, because we are contracted. But mentally? It’s spiralling; you feel forgotten. I spend those few weeks waking up early, doing rehab at a local physio clinic while watching Sky Sports News lay clips of Premier League goals. You feel your world is falling apart.

Social life? It’s weird. You don’t want to go out drinking—recovery matters. But you’re not a celebrity either, so most nights, it’s just Netflix, phone calls with family, and scrolling through property listings you can’t afford, at least not yet. I think a lot about what’s next. Will it be coaching or scouting? I’ve started taking my FA coaching badges online for now. A couple of lads on my team are doing sports science diplomas. One’s opening a barber shop with his cousin.

And with all this, the only thing which keeps me going is the match day. The roar, the adrenaline, the pure joy of a clean tackle and last-minute equalizers. That feeling of walking off, knowing you left it all on the pitch.

I know we aren’t famous, not rich. But we are pros. We sacrifice a lot every day to keep this dream going, even when we know it won’t last forever. I mean, at the end of the day, we’re not just playing for now. We’re playing for the memory, the pride and the love of the game that started when we were just kids with muddy boots and wild dreams.