When I was 10, the dream was simple – play at Wembley, score in front of 90,000, lift the trophy. I used to fall asleep with a football at my feet. I used to imagine a match-of-the-day camera following me around school all the time. Fast forward to today, I am 27 years old, and I have never played at Wembley, never scored a goal that made it to the national headlines. But I still get to live my childhood dream, just a grittier version of it.

Now I’m in League Two. You learn very quickly that football isn’t all glory and glamour. It’s repetition, recovery, rejection, and hard work, and it takes more dedication than you can imagine. I’ve been dropped, loaned out, booed off, and subbed at half-time. I have had to play in front of 400 people on a freezing Tuesday night. You swallow your pride and keep showing up every day.

And it hardens you, but it also makes you more wiser. When I was 18, I thought I’d be a star; when I was 23, I realised that survival in the sport was the most significant victory. And now, I play for the love of it, not the spotlight. I take pride in doing the dirty work, winning headers and blocking shots, and talking the younger lads through tough spells.

The shape of your dreams changes, but the dream never dies. You find new and better goals to achieve. Helping the club avoid relegation, mentoring an academy kid through his debut, and recovering from injury in half the time the physio predicted.

It’s not the path I imagined, but it’s still a path worth walking. Football teaches you resilience; it humbles you and forces you to grow up too fast. It leaves no room for ego when cleaning your boots and making post-match recoveries in a kiddie pool filled with ice from Tesco bags. I used to want the world to know my name. Now, I want to walk off that pitch knowing I gave everything. That may have made someone in the stands proud. Maybe some kid in the crowd decides to chase their dream because they saw someone like me, ordinary, working-class, still fighting.

I don’t know how long I’ll keep playing. Bodies wear out. Opportunities dry up. But until that final whistle, I’ll keep chasing the ball. Because deep down, I’m still that kid with a football at his feet and stars in his eyes.

Just a bit more grounded now.