My lungs filed a complaint (and so did my back)

Here is a thing I have learned the hard way: being able to run-walk for two hours and fifteen minutes does not, it turns out, qualify you for five-a-side soccer.

I went to play with some guys who swear their allegiance to Jesus on Saturday, quietly confident. I’ve been building an engine for months. I’ve stayed on my feet for over two hours. Surely a bit of five-a-side would be a gentle stroll for a man of my endurance?

The chest was on fire inside ten minutes.

Because — and this is the humbling revelation — running fitness and soccer fitness are two completely different animals. My beautiful, patient, slow-built aerobic engine is superb at one thing: going steadily, for a long time. Soccer asks for the exact opposite — sprint, stop, cut, sprint again, explode, recover, repeat. A whole energy system I have spent months not training. My lungs, so calm on a long run, were absolutely scandalised. This is not what we agreed to, they said, wheezing.

And yet. I have to report, with appropriate modesty, that I was somewhat of a Ronaldinho out there. In my defence, my nephew was present and the boy was showing off, so I had no choice but to respond in kind. Family honour was at stake. The first half belonged firmly to their team. The second half, however, belonged to us — we scored so many goals we genuinely lost count and stopped bothering. A comeback for the ages, witnessed by God and a handful of unfit believers.

But the beautiful game was not done extracting its price. As the final whistle approached, my lower back cleared its throat and made an announcement: “Hey sir. You make me work too hard now.” All that twisting and cutting and pivoting — movements my straight-line running never asks for — and my back, my one ongoing project, had opinions about it.

I took it seriously (a good massage that night settled it right down, and it was much better by morning). Because that’s the deal with the back these days: I listen when it talks. Soccer, it turns out, pokes it in exactly the spots I’m working to strengthen — which is useful information, even if it arrived via complaint.

So: a glorious second half, a chest that learned humility, a nephew put in his place, and a back that filed its paperwork. Five-a-side is a different sport for a different kind of fit — and I am, apparently, only one of those kinds so far.

Worth every wheeze.