FOOSBALL FODDER

"Hey Matt, by chance, would you like to sign up for the Table Football Tournament?"

My face said no. Meanwhile, my voice said nothing. It invited a pause for Robert to explain how they're trying to get the numbers up and there was an odd number (it's a doubles tournament) so I'd be helping them out if I said yes.

'Helping them out'. I didn't think he was selling it very well. I was having flashbacks to school, where I was forced to join sports teams to make up the numbers. I, and the three others Robert's just strong-armed into forming two teams, are clearly fodder... so that the cool kids (who play each other every lunch time and have already picked their own teams anyway) will end up facing off in the glorious table-football-finals.

"At least you'll be in a team," said Robert.

"So, let me know who I'm going to let down and be humiliated with," said I, "I'm really rubbish at this; I'm not sure why you've asked me, to be honest."

"Well, I just thought you'd be easily persuaded!" he said.

I don't think it was a joke.

"So I'm both incompetent and gullible!" I replied, pointedly. (I don't like it when I do that, but I'd done it.) "Excellent." (sarcasm)

In the end, back at my desk, I thought about it. Things like this are supposed to be fun, and it isn't right to only ever play games to win them. My competitive side must never be allowed to outweigh my joy, and who knows, I might... enjoy... it a lot more than I think - even though I haven't played for ages. Perhaps that's the attitude to take? The win is in the joy?

Robert's currently randomizing the ensign red-shirts, the foosball fodder for the better teams to pick off week by week. I'm kind of hoping I don't end up with someone who gets cross when I backheel the ball into the goal (likely) or use my famously slow reflexes to slide the keeper out of the way when a slow ball rolls towards him (more likely).

But then, if I remember my school days well: lining up against the wall while all the cool kids get picked for the teams and a handful of us were left with our hands behind our backs on the cold bricks - the chances are that the other three are hoping that they won't be a let down either. And I don't want to be that guy who huffs and puffs and takes it all too seriously.

So I'm in. I'm in the TFT. I messaged Robert back. Who knows? Maybe it'll be like the time at school when I accidentally toe-punted the football with no intention or skill, and curled it into the top corner like Roberto Carlos. I guess anything is possible.