Liam Ridgewell and the rapid passage of time
“Liam Ridgewell, he’s the next Tony Adams” — My friend, Thom, probably drunk.
I’ve been thinking about Liam Ridgewell lately, just in case the title hadn’t already given it away. Having watched the review of Villa’s 2005/06 season on YouTube a few weeks ago, I became obsessed with trawling eBay for a shirt from that campaign, buying it, and putting his name and number on the back of it. Could you imagine? How badly I’d get teased if I dared wear that to Villa Park — if we’re ever allowed back in.
I bought the shirt — paying way too much, for it considering it has a little claret and blue priest collar and looks like it says “Cows” on the chest — but I stopped short at getting it printed. I’m not ashamed of my proclivity for ‘Ridgey’, or for wanting to pay homage to a guy who made less than a hundred appearances for the club over a five-year period.
Thinking about him has made me more melancholy than it should.
Ridgewell is a year older than me, making us peers. We’d recognise the same
cultural references and undoubtedly remember a lot of the same experiences that came with growing up in the 90s. But whereas he has come to the end of his career, I’m still a good 35–40 years away from retirement, and it has made me painfully aware of my own mortality.
I have this weird thing that I’ve done ever since I was a kid, where I think of life through the prism of a footballer’s career. For example, when I was 17, I was a youngster, working my way out of a YTS programme and into the real world, and now that I’m 35, I’m hoping that Fleetwood Town will give me a year to prolong the inevitable as my aching bones — which should give up — refuse to do so. Do you follow?
I think I do this because, unlike a footballer’s career, which can be easily traced through Wikipedia entries, official stats and YouTube clips, I’m left to try and remember my life through my own hazy memory (and reader, I barely
remember a thing!)
When Ridgewell came through the ranks at Villa, he did so alongside the likes of Gary Cahill, Steven Davis, Peter Whittingham and Gabriel Agbonlahor. A veritable crop compared to the slow conveyer belt of young talent the club had produced in the years before. Aside from Lee Hendrie, Gareth Barry and Darius Vassell, the young players I remember making their way into the first team were Graeme Fenton, who managed to bag himself a Coca-Cola Cup winner’s medal; Ricardo Scimeca (73 apps); Richard Walker (nine apps); David Hughes (seven apps); and Darren Byfield (also with seven apps).
He filtered into the side gradually before establishing himself, and even managed to get himself on the scoresheet five times during that 2005/6
season. Despite now, with hindsight, being able to laugh at my friend Thom’s
proclamation of the second coming of Tony Adams, at the time Ridgewell
appeared to be the real deal.
From headbutting Cristiano Ronaldo’s midriff to scoring twice during a 3–3 draw with Fulham, he’s had enough about him to be considered a cult hero — by me anyway. It’s a shame he spent the next seven years with two of our nearest neighbours in Birmingham and West Brom.
After that, he escaped to spend a solid five years with the Portland Timbers, where he won the MLS Cup and was even named in the all-star team. But from the casual MLS observer, the pièce de résistance was the beard and
topknot he grew to acclimatise to his surroundings in the Pacific Northwest. It might sound like I’m making fun, but I respect his willingness to experiment with his appearance. It’s something we all did in our 20s.
Liam Ridgewell retired at the end of last season and is now partaking in the typical ex-footballer fare of playing golf and considering a career in management. His retirement hit me as especially pertinent because a lot has happened since he left the club. A lot of life has happened. And in my head, I’m not ready to equate the young man with the wispy moustache and oversized shirt as being ‘of age’ — because accepting that means that I, too, am getting older.
