James Ashford, Age 7 – Summer, 1987 – Nottingham
I'd spent the past year doing more watching than playing—not just watching for fun but studying. While most boys my age chased the ball, I chased ideas—movement, shape, and timing.
I wasn't the kid who just kicked a ball at the wall. I paused matches and drew out passing patterns. I'd use my notebooks, dozens of them now, to chart how teams moved, who ran where, and why. At night, while other boys my age were pretending to be the goal scorer, I sat cross-legged in bed thinking, "Why did the fullback overlap at that moment? Why did the winger drop instead of run behind?"
I watched tapes until the images blurred. I had an old VCR and a stack of matches taped from BBC and ITV. Dad had stopped recording over them once he realized I wasn't just watching; I was studying.
Still, something had been gnawing at me. Watching from afar wasn't enough anymore. If I wanted to understand football, I had to be inside it, not just love it. I had to feel what it was like to be the one running into space, not just drawing arrows on a page.
That morning, I found Dad in the kitchen, hunched over the paper with his reading glasses halfway down his nose. He was sipping tea, half-listening to the radio. He looked peaceful, which made what I was about to do feel like a crime.
"Dad?"
He looked up. "Morning, lad."
I hesitated. "Can I ask you something?"
He set the mug down, eyes narrowing slightly in mock suspicion. "You're not after another Panini sticker book, are you?"
"No. It's serious."
That got his attention. He folded the paper and turned to me fully.
"I want to join the Notts County academy."
There was a pause, just long enough for my heart to panic. Then he leaned back slightly.
"Do you know?"
I nodded quickly. "I've looked it up. The club starts taking boys from seven. There's a form you can get from the clubhouse. I think they have open sessions next month."
Dad tilted his head, studying me. "You've never even played on a team."
"I know, but I want to. I want to learn. I want to see what it feels like to play in every position, to understand what players think when they're on the pitch."
He didn't laugh. He didn't smile, either. He just stared at me like he was seeing something new.
"You want to join to be a better fan?" he asked, though I could tell he already knew the answer.
"No," I said. "I want to be a better coach. Someday."
That cracked the corner of his mouth. "That right?"
I nodded. "I want to understand every role. The pressure. The instincts. Not just the theory."
He stood, walked over, and placed a hand on my shoulder. His grip was warm and steady.
"You know they make you play actual matches. You can't just sit and analyze all day."
"I want that too," I said, maybe too fast. "I want to feel it. Even the bad bits. That's the point."
He looked at me for another long moment. Then he nodded.
"Alright. We'll go down this weekend. Talk to the coaches. If they'll have you, we'll sign you up."
I couldn't help it. I threw my arms around him, giving him the biggest hug I could with my small arms. He chuckled and ruffled my hair.
"Just promise me one thing," he said.
"Anything."
"Don't give up your dream halfway, and don't forget to enjoy the process. Even when you're studying. Football is not just a problem to solve. People live and breathe this sport. Whether it's passion or to provide for their families. Learn as much as you can."
I nodded, but I wasn't sure I understood. Not then.
The weekend came quickly. The Notts County training ground wasn't far, just a short drive across the river. It was modest, a few pitches behind a rusted gate, but it felt like walking into a palace to me. Boys my age ran drills under the eye of coaches in tracksuits. There was shouting, laughter, and the crisp thump of boots against the grass.
We met a man named Terry, one of the academy coaches. He was kind but firm, with a thick Midlands accent and a whistle around his neck that he seemed to wear like a badge of office. After greeting Dad, he turned to me.
"Have you ever played before, James?" he asked as we stood near the edge of the pitch.
"No, sir."
"But you want to?"
"Yes, sir. Every position."
He raised a brow. "Most lads come in wanting to be the next Lineker or Gascoigne, but this is good. We can figure out where you play best in the field, especially with your lack of experience."
I nodded. "I want to understand how it all works."
He chuckled. "We'll see how long that lasts after you get a muddy slide tackle to the shins."
They let me train with the rest for half an hour. I wasn't fast, and I wasn't the strongest, but I listened and watched, and when I was told to hold a position or press a run, I did it without hesitation.
After the session, Terry called Dad over.
"He's raw, but he's got a good head on him," he said. "We'll give him a month's trial. See how he settles."
I tried to play it cool, but I was shaking with excitement on the inside.
Dad looks at me as we return to the car and smiles, "Congratulations, lad. You earned this. Know it's time to prove your mettle in the field."
That night, I opened my notebook again. On the first blank page, I wrote:
June 1987 – Joined the Academy
Below that:
Goalkeeper: Observe positioning, handling, and communication. How do they organize the defense? What do they see that others don't?
Centre-back: Marking, anticipation, courage.
Fullback: Support, pace, recovery.
Midfield: Vision, control, decision-making.
Striker: Movement, instinct, composure.
I wasn't just going to play.
I was going to learn it all.
And someday, I'd use it.
Ping!
A soft flicker in the back of my mind. Not a voice. Not words. Just... a presence.
[SYSTEM NOTICE]
Requirement 1 of 5 met: Enter Organised Football.
Progress saved. Monitoring continued.
I blinked and looked up from the page. Nothing had changed in the room. But something had definitely started.