Give Him Wings continued

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He played every Christmas game as he had since the beginning of the season – on the right wing. His crosses had become something to behold; twenty-two years of professional football had taught him everything he needed to know about positioning, feints, ball control, team mates. He seemed to know where everyone was and knew exactly when to make runs. But whilst this would be expected of someone with his experience, it was made even better with a returning fitness which belied everything the physio had ever known; this shouldn’t be happening.
“Angelo, I want to ask you about something which I don’t understand.”
“You mean Dave Young.”
“How do you know?”
“Someone else mentioned him recently at the physios meeting in London.”
“Who?”
“Just one of the other premiership physio boys.”
“Why would they be interested – he’s over forty.”
“I don’t think he was ‘interested’ in that way; people had just heard about his fitness levels and how they were so much better – even the papers are writing about him mate!”
“Well, can I tell you some stuff about it if you promise not to tell anyone?”
“No problem – can we meet in London next week?”

“What do you mean someone’s come in for Dave?” Chairmen hated losing players who only had short contracts – especially those that were performing the way David was.
“Boss, it’s Chelsea!”
“What do they want with him – he’s forty!”
“I dunno – but someone’s been talking. They must know something.”
“But everyone knows how well he is playing – it’s common knowledge.”
“Yeah, but no one would be remotely interested in him unless they’d seen the numbers.”
“What numbers?”
“The physiological stuff – boss, it seems that something odd has happened. He’s getting younger.”

The transfer was the biggest story that January. Chelsea had bought a forty year old player to ‘help them with their Champion’s League challenge’. OK, it was only to the end of the season and Dave knew he could always go back to Swindon if he wanted to afterwards – besides the contract was worth the same as his past four years! It was his pension.

The numbers had made the sale. Stats had been compiled for every game that season so far versus the previous four seasons – more miles run, more completed passes, more assists, more goals; every stat showed that something had happened to the old pro who’d been getting ready to go to grass. Gary Hartley, the last surviving English manager in the Premiership was a wily old fox. His backroom boys had interpreted all the numbers for him and told him what they all meant and the boy had done some stuff for him when he’d asked him to come along for a half day - Angelo confirmed that the numbers on that day for his sprints and the bleep test were even better than those that Swindon had recorded for him a few months previously and, for that matter, were also better than most of the Chelsea squad. Gary, although suspicious of numbers, decided that it was a punt worth taking. A boy like this one could just what he needed for the dressing room. Nothing to prove, no ego, no pretensions – just a good old-fashioned pro who’d take no mucking about. Besides, he liked the boy, he could cross a ball.

The first training session was strange. David was worried he might have bitten off more than he could chew but the boss had convinced him that he’d be fine.
“Just tell the foreigners to fuck off if they give you any lip.” They didn’t, although there had been some whispering in Spanish and Italian when he was introduced to everyone – even the captain was a bit terse. But after thirty minutes of loosening-up and a short ten aside session where contact was forbidden, David was in.
“Mate, that’s some turn of speed you got on yer’.”

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