My time has come and gone so I can simply watch now with only the faintest hint of regret and an easily suppressed desire to lace up my boots and be out there again.
The floodlights are switched on and there is a slight buzzing sound as the filaments heat up and during that time the pitch is lit by an unearthly light which casts little shadow and seems to come from the earth itself. It almost feels like moonlight and during that brief moment, I imagine that, amongst the young muddied men out there now bantering and running, booting the ball high into the night sky and jeering at anyone who drops it, there are also the ghosts of those who once graced this pitch. These ghosts leave the faintest of traces in the air as they run and their voices are almost, but not quite completely, lost. Perhaps, they can only be seen and heard by the living ghosts, ghosts such as myself, who can just discern their younger and better selves as they enact the set plays that we once did in order to outwit the opposition, the same set plays that the adults in the top half of the pitch are carrying out and the same set plays that my son's team perform close to where I am stood. The same move probably carried out since rugby began, number 8 picks up at back of scrum, commits opposing scrum half, feeds scrum half who at pace commits opposition winger and the final pass goes out to winger who should, but never is (!), be free to run.

Myself, and two of the coaches watch our sons' play, two of the boys in their father's position and mine thankfully not and with a smile of pride we imagine when the team sheet in the club house will again contain a Daniels, a Mace and a Knight.

We try not to imagine that our sons' time will also come and go and that one day their ghosts will join those of their Fathers illuminated briefly by the moonlit glow of the floodlights.