Per ardua ad astra, sort of thing

One of the most disappointing aspects of this season has been the number of games that have had to be cancelled. The fact is, though, that it’s not simply a question of the groundsman deciding to give himself an easy life.

I probably have a greater insight than most into the mind of Johnny Groundsman, and I can tell you that he likes nothing more than the sight of 22 overweight, balding near-geriatrics trundling over his fresh-cut turf.

Just as for us the Sunday morning game is an opportunity to express our inner selves, our creative urges, our pent-up aggressions and our often ambivalent feelings towards our fellow man, so for the groundsman it offers a chance to assess the judiciousness of his horticultural explorations over the preceding seven days.

And haven’t we all paused to wonder as we trot gracefully out onto the Hawker pitch (our limbs primed, our minds clear, our focus sharp and unyielding) at the small linear grooves left in the turf by the groundsman’s spiked roller? Haven’t we pondered the sheer brute force required to create those small, deep, perfectly formed holes at each corner of the pitch that, for 90 minutes each Sunday, become the receptacles for the four corner flags?

So next time you consider lynching the groundsman, let your hand be stayed. Rather, direct your anger towards those who’ve nurtured a culture of litigation in this country, so that sometimes it seems we’re taking an inordinate risk even in the very act of walking and breathing and being human.

When I joined the Casuals some eight years ago, I remember playing one away game down at the Kew FC pitch in Ham. We waited around for what seemed like hours before the home team showed up. We were then escorted to changing rooms apparently held together by encrusted mud from the boots of generations of previous occupants, and we ended up playing the game on a pitch so hard that I actually cut my hand and knee quite badly on the one occasion when I fell over.

But did I consider suing the hosts for this inconvenience? No, it never crossed my mind. It never occurred to anyone on the pitch that day that the rock-hard ground made injury considerably more likely. Nor, for that matter, did I ever think during my rugby-playing schooldays that I ran the risk of drowning in the event of a scrum collapse on top of one of the many puddles dotted about the St Benedict’s School playing field.

In one sense, of course, it is right that our society places such a high value on human well-being. The average lifespan of a UK male is nearly 80. But aren’t we made stronger by physical adversity? Isn’t it a question of no pain, no gain? I mean, who wouldn’t relish the opportunity of playing football against a team of Eskimos on the edge of a huge iceberg fringed by a 300ft vertical drop into a freezing-cold sea below?