I was reminded of it when reading the excellent short story by Italian writer Michele Mari, The Soccer Balls of Mr Kurz. There is a wrinkle to this reminisce, of course there is. Our back windows were only single glazing but surprisingly durable (we tested them many times with wayward half volleys) but it was probably the fact that my parents were the least likely to murder their offspring if one did get smashed that I got to play most of my three-goals-in career at a home venue. Low participation often meant the action moved to my own back yard, which had the advantage of actual rudimentary goalposts instead of breeze blocks, although the net was more for decoration than decreasing ball speed or interfering with its trajectory.
Growing up in an estate this patch was literally ‘the green’, where if numbers were high enough, tournaments - often lop-sided ones, where some players favoured picking their nose over tackling - could flourish. This was of course interspersed with our own endeavours on the patch of green (brown around the goal area).
