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Issue 4

9

A Fall From Grace

Child prodigy blossoms into distinctly average adult! Adam Burns Reporter

to make the step up to Y.T.S and that it would be unfair to drag the process out any further. I found out later in life that apparently my Dad fought my corner well, but my mum had to throw the towel in as he took too many devastating blows. The news

“And the winner of this year’s player of the year is……..Adam Burns!!” announced Colin Suggett, the head of Ipswich Towns Football academy. I was honestly surprised as I had been playing most of the season at right back and not centre mid which

“Keep your eye in Burnsy lad, and make sure you start eating your veg, you could do with growing a few inches” I felt was my natural position. Even so my team mates seemed to agree with the ex Sunderland and Norwich player and as I walked up to collect my little golden mini me, I had a sense of pride in my belly that I had never felt before. As Mr.Suggett handed me the trophy he whispered “Keep your eye in Burnsy lad, and make sure you start eating your veg, you could do with growing a few inches” his thick Geordie accent reminded me of my hero Peter Beardsley, and as I posed for photos, tightly holding my proudest achievement to date, my dream of becoming a professional footballer seemed as tightly in my grasp as my trophy. “Who’ve we got this week?” asked Ross in his broad Maccem accent as he put on his Nike astro trainers. “Inter Ya Mam”

Adam Burns, second from left, playing in BUSA league

I replied. Oh how the mighty have fallen. Instead of running out to thousands of adoring fans at St. James’s Park and scoring a hat-rick at the Gallowgate End, I somehow find myself paying £9 a time to play teams called Multiple Scorgasm and Sporting Lesbians. Instead of rubbing shoulders with other graduates of the Ipswich Town academy system like Kieron Dyer, Titus Bramble and Darren Ambrose I find myself facing opposition who have clearly spent more time thinking about a funny team name than actually playing football. The beginning of the end was probably that night when I experienced pride like never before, the comment Colin Suggett or should I say Mystic Meg made about my height was like a Nostradamus prophecy. When I returned for preseason training my team mates

had suddenly been swallowed up my puberty and spat out looking like the BFG, whereas I looked like I had just got of the boat from Lilliput. I was smaller, slower and weaker than every player in the team and I new from the very first training session at the young age of fourteen that my days with the tractor boys were numbered. It didn’t take long before I was sat on the bench, freezing my pre pubescent balls off, watching other lads becoming more accomplished players as they came up against the likes of Chelsea, Tottenham and West Ham. The final nail in my coffin came ironically after I scored my first goal of the season, a header in a 3-3 draw with Arsenal. My parents were taken into a room with my coach and told that their son was not developing fast enough, that he would not be able

“When I returned for preseason training my team mates had suddenly been swallowed up my puberty and spat out looking like the BFG, whereas I looked like I had just got of the boat from Lilliput. “ hit me like a punch in the stomach, I felt winded and unable to breath. The drive back to Newmarket in my Dad’s Ford Granada was quite easily the most depressing forty five minutes of my young life. I knew it had hurt my dad as he didn’t even go to the Cherry Tree for killer pool, Super Sunday and a pint of Boddingtons smooth. I can now understand why my Dad felt this way as looking back it had been he who picked me up from school to take the ninety minute round trip, four times a week to Portman Road, and he who had kicked, headed and tackled every ball with me during my 8 year career with “George Burley’s Barmy Army”. When we pulled in to our modest semi detached house on our sleepy Suffolk street, I turned to my Dad and told him I was

sorry, “Never mind that! Gan and get the grow bag out the shed, we’ll have ya 6ft in ne time” he joked, in his familiar Geordie tone, whilst ruffling my hair and playfully kicking me in the direction of our weathered shed. My Dad’s optimism wasn’t shared by myself, but I laughed anyway and told him they’re plenty more clubs in the sea. After brief spells at Norwich and Colchester which had also ended with my Dad going punch to punch with some old pro turned coach, It seemed I was never going to be good enough to make a living out of football. This was not a decision made voluntarily, it was more forced upon me. My career didn’t go completely Alf-Inge Haaland, as I once again tasted success at Portman Road, unfotunately this isn’t Roy of the Rovers and I was not picked from obscurity by new Town boss Joe Roy-

“Oh how the mighty have fallen. Instead of running out to thousands of adoring fans at St. James’s Park and scoring a hatrick at the Gallowgate End, I somehow find myself paying £9 a time to play teams called Multiple Scorgasm and Sporting Lesbians.” al, instead I was represetning the county in the F.A County Youth Cup Final. We won a dramtic

game 2-1 and at the function following the game I enjoyed champagne and salmon whilst the usual boring speeches took place thanking the refs and the county officials. There was one last tropy to give out however and that was for the County Player of theYear, the tropy would be presented by David Sheepshanks and yes you guessed it, now head scout, Colin Sugget. There were whispers that I had done enough to win the award, and when Mr.Sheepshanks said my name, I made the long walk through the tables of people I had never seen before with the same smile I was wearing when I was fourteen. Colin Suggett handed me the trophy and shook my hand, “Well done son” he said. I thanked him and the club for the hospitailty and told him inperticular the vegatables were some of the finest I had ever eaten, he replied with a puzzled “thankyou, I’ll have to tell the chef”. I wasn’t dissapointed that he hadn’t remembered me, it had after all been nearly five years, he probably thought I went on to become a Jockey like my dad or a Borrower like my mum. I was happy that I had in a way had the last laugh, of course the last laugh would have been sweeter if it was the World Cup I was lifting as captain of England, but like I said beofre this is’nt Roy of the Rovers.

And Who Says Romance is Dead? Alex Rouse Reporter I think most of us at some point or another have thought that romantic guys are a dying breed. Although do we expect too much? Or are most guys just clueless about anything romantic? Like me you’ve probably heard lot’s of stories of guy’s being romantic. My best friend’s boyfriend filled her room with candles and rose petals. These sorts of stories don’t really help when your single... or in a relationship for that

matter. They just make us think “why can’t I find a guy like that” or “All the decent guys are taken”. Are most men just clueless to romantic gestures nowadays? Or maybe unlike guys, over the years we’ve been pre-programmed. From a child we was filled with images of couples and their happily ever after endings. From our Barbie who had her Ken to pretty much every Disney film which was around when we was kids. No wonder some of us might draw the conclusion that if they can fight

the bad guy in the film for their true love mine should on occasion and pull out my chair or open the door for me. At the minute I’m in a relationship with a guy who has got the balance just right. When your boyfriend does something spontaneous and romantic like getting you flowers out of the blue, they sweep you off your feet all over again. It may not be a first kiss but it still leaves you just as weak at the knees. I think I’ve also realised a guy doesn’t have to buy you something

to be romantic although presents are nice if the occasion calls for it. It’s the little things which make a relationship so nice. The fact that you know that the person is there for you no matter what, that they still think you’re gorgeous without your make-up on or if you are having a fat day. If you are complaining about your guy not being romantic maybe you should look at yourself. Should women try to be romantic? I doubt guys would want flowers but cooking their favourite din-

ner or if you have to get a present then I’m sure and xbox or PS3 game would go down well or just dressing up for you man usually does the trick. Maybe the more little things we do for our men the more inclined they’d feel to do stuff for us. Romantic guys aren’t a dying breed. There are plenty out there we just shouldn’t expect too much. We also shouldn’t expect the guys to be the only ones to make an effort, aren’t we modern independent women after all. Now I am not saying

make a very public gesture of your love because that would be just weird. But little gestures work well like cooking them breakfast. So there is hope out there for any of you single ladies, I think nearly all guys have some sort of a romantic side they just need to find the a girl who they want to treat like a princess. If you are lucky and have already found a guy who treats you like princess then appreciate it because you deserve it and don’t forget to treat them sometimes as well.


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