Wherever I go, whatever I do, my left shoelace has an uncanny knack for wriggling its way free of the bow I so carefully tie. Always the left! Something supernatural at play? Perhaps it’s because I’m right-handed and lack the same vigour when securing it. Or maybe, I’m simply no good at tying laces. Whatever the reason, my left shoelace seems to possess a will of its own.
Neatly combed hair, a crisp white shirt, sharply pressed striped trousers, waistcoat, frock coat, leather gloves, top hat, and a pair of meticulously polished shoes – perfection. That is, until the rebellious lace-end of my left shoe flaps about, tainting my otherwise impeccable appearance. No matter how poised I feel as I step out to conduct funerals, one rogue lace is enough to make me feel positively dishevelled. I considered slip-on shoes and even bought a pair, but no matter how much I polished them, one remained dull while the other gleamed. I conceded defeat. To this day, I have yet to find the perfect shoes I dream of.
When my left lace betrays me, I instinctively glance down and scowl. A quick bend of the knee, and I tuck it hastily between leather and ankle until I have the chance to re-tie it. A minor inconvenience, yet a recurring one.
Perhaps my struggles stem from childhood. As a boy, I exclusively wore slip-on, black sand shoes, never concerning myself with the art of lace-tying. I suppose I first realised I was behind my peers when, by some miracle – or, more likely, some grave administrative error – I was selected for the school football team. Though I adored football at the time (a sentiment I no longer share), I was no natural player. Nevertheless, I was ecstatic. My name was on the team sheet, and my first competitive match loomed.
In the days leading up to the big event, I pored over my Shoot magazines, fantasising about our opponents being the finest team in the district. Surely, we’d be obliterated. Yet, in my daydreams, with mere minutes remaining and defeat all but certain, I would miraculously turn the tide – dazzling dribbles, lightning-fast footwork, and a succession of blistering strikes that would leave even the professionals in awe. The reality, however, was somewhat different: I was utterly terrified – because I had yet to master the simple act of tying my laces.
Our kit arrived – a striking canary yellow, with matching socks, shorts, and shirt, emblazoned with a bold black number nine on the back. The number of my hero, Supermac – who I had the misfortune of meeting when I was an adult: I say misfortune because he was a miserable little so-and-so. The sheer novelty of it thrilled me so much that I paraded around the house wearing it in the evenings. My football boots were black with three white stripes on each side, their rubber-moulded studs a compromise – screw-in studs were beyond our budget. I had seen a photograph of Terry Yorath running out for Wales, his boots boasting those long, gleaming studs, and I could only dream of such luxury.
Then came the fateful morning – a bitterly cold Saturday, the school pitch frozen solid, its surface more akin to iron than grass. I took my position, sleeves pulled down over my hands in a vain attempt to fend off the cold. My legs, a shocking shade of blue beneath my shorts, shivered violently, and my nose stung with the merciless bite of winter. Not a single one of us could run properly – the ground was treacherous, and our studs provided little to no grip.
Each half lasted about twenty minutes, and, as luck would have it, we were up against St. Patrick’s, one of the most formidable teams in the area. Defeat was the expected outcome. As for my performance – well, abysmal would be putting it kindly. I scarcely moved, spent more time on the ground than on my feet, and was promptly screamed at for botching a throw-in, gifting possession to the opposition. I was penalised for pulling someone’s hair (an accident, I swear), reprimanded for swearing at the referee (our PE teacher), and committed countless fouls, tugging at shirts in sheer frustration. My crowning disgrace? Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the pitch, arms folded in a sulk, until I was unceremoniously dragged upright by my shirt.
The match was an utter debacle, and with mere minutes remaining, not a single goal had been scored.
Then, in a final twist of fate, we won a corner. The ball was struck and skidded haphazardly across the frozen goalmouth, bouncing unpredictably – until it reached me.
For a fleeting moment, time slowed. I couldn’t believe it – the ball had come to me! And my timing? Perfect! I readied myself, shifting my weight, poised to unleash a powerful strike that would send the ball soaring into the net, immortalising me as the unexpected hero.
But destiny had other plans.
My laces – never tied, merely wrapped repeatedly around my boots and hastily tucked in – had loosened. As I swung my right foot, I stepped squarely onto them. In an instant, my balance betrayed me, and I tumbled forward, landing directly on top of the ball.
The opposing goalkeeper, braced for a heroic save, launched himself in completely the wrong direction, anticipating a shot that never came. Beneath my chest, the ball squirmed free, rolling lazily across the goal line… and stopped.
A goal. We won. 1-0
Victory favours the clumsy – so long as the ball rolls the right way.
Wording 