I’m going to burn my boots, yes burn them. I’m going to find a steel bin, or something you burn things in, stick them in, take a blowtorch or a more accessible lighting piece of equipment, a match perhaps, and just light them!
I am neither a closet or vocal pyromaniac before you call the fire brigade or police. I am simply fed up of them, they have caused me nothing but grief since purchase.
My nostalgia spreads to days of my first football boots. I remember they were a pair of BLACK Diadora’s. I was given them as a present by my folks for my fifth birthday. I’ll never forget the feeling of having my very own Diadora’s. They were after all the choice shoe of my heroes, Franco Baresi and a very young Paolo maldini.
And then there was that period at school where all the kids had Predator’s and one or two still with the “old school” adidas Beckenbauer, because, it was Beckenbauer after all. I however moved to Lotto (an Italian must wear Italian shoes), still black, not fancy, and comparatively the weight of a baby elephant to those shiny Predators.
And this is where paranoia starts to settle into my current boots. PURPLE Nike Mercurials. If it wasn’t for the fact that I am a 6’3 (1.90) Italian, which in itself defies normal stereotypes, people would think I am a Prince back up artist or something, because unfortunately my skills don’t match that of the sheer flamboyance these bad boys have. I don’t have the step over or side shuffle. I don’t have blistering pace or the fancy drag roll that eludes the world’s best and Sunday league people. Nope, I am your “hit and hope” type of player. Sure, I try to do an overhead kick every now and again, and yeah the Cryuff turn is my only recognised move, but there is nothing fancy about me, and that’s why these boots are my ultimately my jinx.
I’ve owned them now for 8 months, I have been injured for about 6 of those. They somehow make me believe that I can do all the stuff that the other boys can do. They can’t.
There is no emotional attachment to these. There still is with my Diadora and Lotto boots. A friend of mine recently wrote about his son and how he has a dream for his son’s first pair of boots - or rather, where it could lead. My dad dreams of the day when he doesn’t get a phone call to say “Dad, I think I’ve done something playing football, can you come and pick me up?”
Yes, alas, it is but the boots, these PURPLE monstrosities that are to blame. There is no emotion or hope left with them anymore, I salute you Mr Nike Mercurials, it was a relationship never meant to last, a bonfire with your name on it awaits your fate.
I am neither a closet or vocal pyromaniac before you call the fire brigade or police. I am simply fed up of them, they have caused me nothing but grief since purchase.
They are purple. Yes PURPLE. When you are presented with 2 choices, that or bright blue, you begin to wonder what is going on in the world of footballers to have purple or blue as their preferred attire.
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| I was never meant to look this fancy on a football pitch |
And then there was that period at school where all the kids had Predator’s and one or two still with the “old school” adidas Beckenbauer, because, it was Beckenbauer after all. I however moved to Lotto (an Italian must wear Italian shoes), still black, not fancy, and comparatively the weight of a baby elephant to those shiny Predators.
And this is where paranoia starts to settle into my current boots. PURPLE Nike Mercurials. If it wasn’t for the fact that I am a 6’3 (1.90) Italian, which in itself defies normal stereotypes, people would think I am a Prince back up artist or something, because unfortunately my skills don’t match that of the sheer flamboyance these bad boys have. I don’t have the step over or side shuffle. I don’t have blistering pace or the fancy drag roll that eludes the world’s best and Sunday league people. Nope, I am your “hit and hope” type of player. Sure, I try to do an overhead kick every now and again, and yeah the Cryuff turn is my only recognised move, but there is nothing fancy about me, and that’s why these boots are my ultimately my jinx.
I’ve owned them now for 8 months, I have been injured for about 6 of those. They somehow make me believe that I can do all the stuff that the other boys can do. They can’t.
There is no emotional attachment to these. There still is with my Diadora and Lotto boots. A friend of mine recently wrote about his son and how he has a dream for his son’s first pair of boots - or rather, where it could lead. My dad dreams of the day when he doesn’t get a phone call to say “Dad, I think I’ve done something playing football, can you come and pick me up?”
Yes, alas, it is but the boots, these PURPLE monstrosities that are to blame. There is no emotion or hope left with them anymore, I salute you Mr Nike Mercurials, it was a relationship never meant to last, a bonfire with your name on it awaits your fate.
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