A shinpad who was also a bloody good friend

My shinpad, the one that “went missing” from the Hawker Centre last week, was in fact a lovely little chap with a bubby, spirited personality. He was a bit like a cross between the Carphone Warehouse walking mobile phone and the crab that featured in the Carling ad (man washes up on desert island; crab shows man fridge full of Carling; man eats crab).

In the past, if ever I was alone at home during the day, I’d pop downstairs into the side passage where I keep my football boots and trophies and things (including a framed copy of the contract they wanted me to sign after my Manchester United trial), and I’d have little imaginary chats with my pads.

The pad that’s gone missing (we’ll call him “Paddy” for simplicity’s sake) would always cheer me up with a kind word if I was feeling down. For example, on the rare occasions when I felt I’d played badly for the Casuals, he’d invariably chip in with a word of encouragement. “Don’t you worry, Mr Mark, sir,” he would seem to say, “it wasn’t your fault that you missed that gaping open goal. Oh, no, Mr Mark. Don’t you fret your good self.” (There was definitely a whiff of the Charles Dickens about Paddy).

I really felt that even if my world was collapsing in on me, Paddy would always be there: an inanimate object, certainly, but one endowed with the virtues of good humour, patience and loyalty.

There are not many people who can talk with such affection about their shinpads, and the fact that I can perhaps demonstrates what an unusual shinpad Paddy was. I fear that I will not see his like again.

If you also have a shinpad that you've come to regard as a friend, why not post a comment on this blog?