The seven ages of (intercounty) man

AGES 18-20, The promising minor: One night the phone rings and it’s the manager of the county side, not his pal pretending same.

He’s a kid, nothing much is expected. Just come out to the trial, we’ll give you a run around. The bells and whistles of the big show blind the young innocent, of course.

Likely to say: “Is the tracksuit mine to keep?”

AGES 20-22, The tearaway:

Playing so many grades and on so many teams he sometimes falls asleep in the shower. Putting down more calories than an elephant at a wedding. Scrapes through examinations. Considers a year out for Australia. Then remembers that the county U21s have a shot at the provincial title. Postpones it. Likely to say: “Any desserts with that?”

AGES 22-25, The young Turk:

These are the red card years, when youthful exuberance and the desire to hurt converge. Excuses are made. Finished college, he tosses a coin about Australia and that job offer. The job wins. He’s nice off the pitch, say the pals; in some contexts he can certainly work the charm. These are also known as the dancing years, for some reason.

Likely to say: “I play for ... Are you going out with anyone? Is your friend? How about her friend?”

AGES 25-28, The angst-ridden hero:

Having bounced around for a couple of years, the star now has a real job. This is good, because he has some money. But it is bad because now he has a real job, he realises that people who have no interest in his life on the pitch control his future, a situation crystallised in a decision regarding his life partner, who proves unwilling to buy any dummies whatsoever. This all combines to take his eye off the ball and he ... loses his place. The press say he’s out of form. The weeks and months in the wilderness are often wildly over-medicated.

Likely to say: “I’ll make up the work in my own time, I need tomorrow morning for recovery.”

AGES 28-30, The god at his peak: That promotion/career change did a power of good, the first child is three years old and sleeping through the night, the position on the team is his to keep. The odd endorsement pops up. A pair of boots, opening a supermarket. Just don’t mention the direct competitor for his place on the team who went travelling around Australia; those U21s and their wild lifestyles, eh? Likely to say: “That’s not how we do things on this team.”

AGES 30-32, The declining warrior: It starts slowly — excused league duty, or else he’s told new lads are being tried in that tournament — but when a new manager says places are up for grabs, he knows what’s coming. The first newspaper article to use the word “veteran” is like a dagger in the heart. That journalist must be 50, if he’s a day.

Likely to say: “It’s all about the team.”

AGES 32-40, The ill-judged comeback kid. Evidence of aching knees is ignored as the great man tries to get it back. All goes well in the first game or two until he comes up against an 18-year-old out to make his name, then it’s time to go back to the club. But the club have grown sick of his absences and know he’s toying with the idea of writing a column for the local paper. The punishment? He faces a spell as a substitute, so it’s a question of making the best of things.

Likely to say: “Is the tracksuit mine to keep?”

Contact [e-mail]