Most kids dream of playing in the Premier League. I was one of them. I grew up kicking a ball against a wall, pretending to be Gerrard or Rooney, thinking one day I’d hear my name chanted by thousands. And now? I do play football professionally—in the second division. But no one chants my name. Not really.
You won’t know who I am. That’s the point. I’m one of the hundreds of lads grinding it out below the glitz and glamour of the top tier. We travel on buses, not private jets. We play on pitches that sometimes feel more like farmland than stadiums. We get a few thousand in the stands, if we’re lucky. And when it rains—which is often—it’s cold, wet, and no one cares that your hamstring is tight or your personal life is falling apart.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m lucky. I get paid to play the game I love. But it’s a job, not a fantasy. Contracts aren’t guaranteed. One injury, one poor season, and you’re out. You hear stories—mates who were released at 22 and now work in call centers. Some who can’t even watch football on telly anymore. It hurts too much.
The pressure’s constant. You’re always playing for the next deal, the next contract, the next manager’s approval. Media doesn’t care unless you screw up. Fans love you when you score, and slaughter you when you don’t. And the pay? It’s decent—but it’s not what people think. Outside the Premier League, you’re not buying Bentleys. You’re saving, praying your knees hold up until 35.
Mentally, it’s brutal. You’re expected to be tough, focused, and loyal to the club—even when the club isn’t loyal to you. You miss weddings, birthdays, funerals. You live out of bags, eat at service stations, and spend your nights in budget hotels before early kickoffs.
But still—when you walk onto that pitch, and the whistle blows, and the ball’s at your feet—you remember why you started. For those ninety minutes, it all fades. It’s just football again.
I don’t know where I’ll be in five years. Maybe still playing. Maybe not. But I’ll say this: there’s a whole world of footballers you never see on TV. We play for pride, for the team, for the game. We don’t get the headlines—but we keep the sport alive.
We’re the other side of football. And we’re still fighting for every minute.
Leave a Reply