By 
Alright lads, sit down and let me tell you how chasing this Premier League dream actually went. Spoiler: it wasn’t like FIFA on the telly.
The Bright Idea Strikes
Woke up one Tuesday dead certain I could crack the Prem. Why? Dunno. Maybe that last lager. Figured experts must have some magic steps, yeah? Found this plan online claiming “simple steps.” Chuckled to myself – “Simple? Brilliant. Let’s crack on then.”
Step One Said: “Start Young. Build Foundations.”
Too late for that, mate. I’m pushing thirty-five with knees that crackle like breakfast cereal. But stubborn mode engaged. Dug out my old boots from the garage – found a spider family living in the left one. Tried jogging round the park.
- Minute 1: Felt mint. Like Beckham circling his free kick.
- Minute 3: Lungs burning. Legs like lead pipes.
- Minute 5: Chucked my guts up behind a bin. Some bloke walking his corgi gave me a thumbs-up. Classy.
Foundations? My foundation was a pile of rubble.
Step Two Promised: “Train Like A Pro Daily.”
Right then. Followed a pro training plan. Videos made it look slick. Reality?
- Ball juggling. Supposed to do fifty touches. Couldn’t get past three before it smacked me right in the nose. Saw stars. Probably set a new personal record.
- Slalom dribbling. Used traffic cones. Ended up booting cones over fences. Spent more time retrieving cones than dribbling. Pissed off the whole neighbourhood.
- Strength training. Resistance bands. One snapped back and whipped me on the arse. Shouted something that’d get me fined on Match of the Day.
“Daily” lasted three days. Ice pack became my best mate.
Step Three Claimed: “Master Tactics & Football IQ.”
Sat down with notebooks like a right scholar. Studied formations. Tried explaining offside traps to my missus. She asked if the trap needed cheese. Watched match analysis videos. Fell asleep drooling on the laptop. Dreams were full of angry managers yelling about “low blocks.” Woke up stressed.
The Big Step Four: “Get Scouted”
This was it! The golden ticket! How?
Option A: Rock up to a Prem academy. Security bloke took one look at me (panting, slightly sunburnt) and asked if I was lost or looking for the bin men.
Option B: Join Sunday League. Told the lads I was aiming for the Prem. They laughed so hard one nearly choked on his energy gel. Got subbed off after ten minutes. First touch? Kicked air. Second? Own goal. Felt about as Prem-ready as a wet teabag.
What Actually Happened?
Found out the hard way:
- “Simple steps”? Rubbish. They mean graft, sweat, tears and likely starting age seven.
- Experts? Mostly blokes selling dreams online.
- The “Prem” I reached? Sprained ankle from tripping on a cone. Leg still aches when it rains.
So yeah. Could I become a Prem player? Nah. Learned the real simple step though: Be brutally honest with yourself. Still got the boots though. Spider family’s thriving. Proper Pro Club atmosphere in that garage.