I was in the process of spinning around when I saw it. It was big and round and it kept getting bigger.
The football slammed into my face, only a metre or so away from the foot that had volleyed it.
There was a collective “oooooh” from the other players and they sauntered over to peer at me as I lay on the ground. If this was a cartoon, tiny little footballers (little subbuteo men if you will) would be circling my head. “Sorry mate” says the man on the other end of the volley as he helps me back to my feet.
My nose feels a little tender and I lick my lips to find that I have rammed a few of my teeth into their soft flesh. Nothing serious. My glasses tell another story though, one arm bent out sideways and blurred marks across one of the lenses. The frames have pushed back into my face and I now have a glasses-shaped mark around one eye.
One of the other players takes a quick inventory of my face. “You’ve got a tiny nick above your eyebrow. Like a shaving cut, you know?” I scratch my bearded chin. “No” I reply.
I think it might be time that I make that appointment with the opticians. Perhaps it is time to get hold of some contact lenses for playing sports. It won’t stop me getting hit in the face with footballs, but it might prevent a few strange black eyes in work on a Wednesday morning.