DANNY Blanchflower, that gifted footballer and raconteur of the 1950s and 60s, used to tell an amusing, perceptive tale regarding his boyhood days in Belfast; it concerned football 'kickabouts' in the, then, mainly traffic free streets and the selection of teams from the motley bunch of youngsters keen to pound the cobbles in pursuit of an ancient tennis ball.

According to Danny, those designated by their peers as the best two players would select their rival sides; the process followed, generally, the application of a seemingly sound, though arguably unkind logic; the speedy lad went on one wing, the small one on the other, the big fellow went centre forward, the fat chap centre half — and the idiot played in goal.

I've always claimed the reason I spent my chequered, grossly under-achieving football career as 'custodian' was not due to this but, rather — unlike these days — as a lad and young man I carried somewhat more weight than was wise, sufficient to ensure my pace was that of a lethargic snail. Still the epithet 'idiot' was probably quite accurate; anyone with just a modicum of sense would have assessed his own dearth of talent and would have retired from the game in his teens or possibly played outfield; to be fair, in this direction I was probably even worse than in goal.

It was, though, relatively stress free; for as my incompetence was matched, almost, by that of some in front of me, few of the many sides I played for ever took to the field with any expectation of victory. There was a plus, too, for even on the coldest day, so busy would I be trying — usually with an embarrassing lack of success — to repel mud-caked footballs, that hypothermia was never a threat, nor boredom; astonishingly, despite conceding, regularly, a deluge of goals, I did on occasions receive praise. The most noteworthy was upon my debut for a local village side on a foul day in January; I was about 17. Pensilva were the opposition, a good side who, at that time, played on a pitch with a slope only marginally less than the north side of the Eiger. Playing down the incline in the first half we were only losing 3-0; the second half, though, it was as if we were confronting the Chinese army, with 90 per cent of the action taking place in our penalty area.

A further half dozen goals were conceded which didn't fill me with any satisfaction; in fact, the sole save I recall making was when the ball hit me in the face and diverted up and over the bar. The manager, though, saw it in a far more positive light — bless him. As we came off the pitch he bounded over, thumped me on the back, and uttered words I've never forgotten: 'Well done, boy; if it hadn't been for you, we'd have had a hammering.'

A week later I was able to understand his delight; we lost 15-0 — truly a hammering.

My football career was sporadic and spent playing mainly for village sides in the West Devon area; I did move about quite a bit as my general ineptitude meant I fell into the 'Don't phone us — we'll phone you' category. Assuredly there was no great number seeking my signature on 'transfer deadline day'.

The division in which most local teams played was the Tavistock section of the Plymouth Combination League. Drawn from West Devon and the Tamar Valley, the proximity of these outfits meant that rivalry was fierce; no quarter given or asked; no prisoners taken. Most of the players then resided in the villages for which they played — as often had generations of their family. Pride was involved, sometimes long running feuds, while referees allowed a level of physicality (sometimes, almost brutality) which would never be tolerated today. Indeed, I remember complaining to the 'man in black' on one occasion when a lumbering opponent had jumped on my head as I lay on the ground.

'It's a man's game, boy,' said the official.

Yet the final whistle usually brought peace and a fraternising with 'the enemy' in the nearest pub — the players often unwashed. For changing and ablution facilities were, at best, spartan, all too often non-existent, many clubs relying on God to provide the 'showers' — often with hailstones thrown in. Still, the caked mud and blood kept the limbs warm — important in an age when central heating, even in hostelries, consisted of a few logs flickering forlornly in a grate. Happy days? Yes. Would I like to go back to them? No — a quiet, sedentary life holds far more allure these days.