Re-born in the USA

Gullit: How can he not be impressed?

One of my enduring memories of childhood is not sandy beach holidays, funfairs and laughter but rather turning to a school friend and earnestly proclaiming: "If I don't do well in this test I'm going to concentrate on my football." I was nine.

I imagine Diego Maradona said something similar as he juggled a peanut on his instep deep in the bowels of Villa Fiorito, a shantytown on the southern outskirts of Buenos Aires, or Pele - back then known to his mates as Edison Arantes do Nascimento - as he perfected the art of the bicycle kick with a grapefruit, before his mother used the remains to jazz up a salad.

We never played with fruit in Bury, or really ate it come to that, but just as the Brazilian testifies in his memoirs, we did make balls from socks encased in gaffer tape. Every few days it would start to unravel as a playground of easily pleased kids chased a solitary flaccid sock in the rain. Great times, although sarcasm aside, I did score some of my best ever goals with M&S's finest.

The similarities with Pele start and end with socks though, as rather than become one of the world's finest ever footballers, I spelt 'Jupiter' correctly as my nine-year-old's dream went the same way as being an extra in Michael Jackson's Thriller video. On second thoughts, maybe I shouldn't be ruing my rudimentary understanding of constellations and planets.

But what I do rue, as is surely the right of any self-respecting 28-year-old male with a pot-belly and fertile imagination, is not making 'it' - never becoming a pro. Surely I can't be alone in spending most Saturdays and every Sunday (it's the Sabbath, what else is there to do?) sat in my pants and screaming at the TV 'I could do that!' every time Titus Bramble shanks one out of touch. Stick into the mix a few beers and it's not difficult to envisage a school of thought that rules Premier League managers should sign up those of us capable of replicating the worst aspects of any one of their players, at least on a fairly regular basis. It could have been me.

That said, with the onset of mortgages and careers, kids and marriage, the dream begins to resemble a slow puncture as the low hiss of settling for a desk rather than dugout, sensible shoes over boots, becomes ever audible.

But then, seemingly delivered by a messenger from the God of Broken Dreams Department, arrives an invitation to ditch the tie, don the boots and make it in the...MLS.

Ford's FeelFootball team have been in touch to offer a skysports.com reporter a trip to LA to train under the watchful eye of former European and World Player of the Year Ruud Gullit, who was until recently David Beckham's coach at LA Galaxy.

Two training sessions in the sun and a competition for 'LA Glory' beneath the Hollywood Hills, where thespians in the guise of waiters serve MLS stars of the magnitude of Carl Robinson, Terry Cooke, Danny Dichio and Rohan Ricketts. Call me waspish but none of these guys are exactly Beckham, so dare the latest English export live the American Dream? I may end up serving skinny lattes to Sarah Jessica Parker but I'm going out there open to offers. I feel like Keira Knightly with love handles. All I've got to do first is impress Ruud and his boys...

Beckham's shock switch to the MLS in 2007 has seen the Atlantic floodgates open, as dissatisfied Championship squad men say cheerio to Blighty and set-up new lives for themselves across the pond. Just like most things Brand Beckham, David has set a precedent for others to follow. For every council estate Capri Jones, Kentucky Smith and Slough Underpass Bradshaw - like Brooklyn named after the destination of conception - there's an Englishman seeking if not fame and fortune, certainly a bit of sun and regular football Stateside. Sounds good to me, where do I sign up?

But am I still within my rights to dream? Just when is the right time to let it go, to stop grasping the nettle of unrealistic aspiration? When is the right time to get the doc leaf out, ease the stinging pain of rejection and move on?

I'd like to say it's when you hit 28 and have a pot belly but personal experience points to the contrary. I haven't played in a competitive game for at least a couple of years (I drew a blank against a tight BBC back four before turning blue), my back is the love child of Alf Garnett and a pane of glass and the last time I played five-a-side I had to take two weeks off work after jarring a nerve in the bottom of my spine. I'm probably the only amateur footballer in England who's had to consider retirement on the grounds I can't afford the insurance.

And yet, without a hint of jest, this weekend I found myself arguing with conviction 'I could score more than three Premier League goals if I played a whole season up front', upon learning that was the paltry total Bolton's Kevin Davies managed last term. That I scored eight goals playing all season as a striker in the Bury Pub League third tier for PSV Hangover, as a fresh faced 21-year-old, did not even hint at registering in my thought process.

As a society we're taught to pity rather than scorn mental illness, gone are the days when kids are actively encouraged to taunt the local loon with sticks, and yet try to impress a lady with the line that you were once on the books of Carlisle or used to play in the same side as Damien Duff's brother and you're invariably met with a look of disdain. And it's usually of the type reserved for the guy that sits next to you on a bus and proudly proclaims 'it's ages since I've worn a nappy' before burrowing his head into a copy of the Spectator.

Still it's with gusto and no little gung-ho that I pack the Samba, I was thinking of getting a new pair but Ruud's sure to favour the seasoned pro over a Jonny Come Lately in boxfresh silver boats, as retro Adidas circa '85 get the nod. As former team-mates will testify, they're magic boots - giving me the power to only run forwards.

Work and FeelFootball don't seem to share my optimism of getting fixed up with a club over there as to my surprise, and no little hurt, they've booked me a return ticket. But I'm pretty confident Ruud's got an eye for talent. After all, this is the man who bought Marcelino to St James' Park. However, if Mr Gullit deems my football to be anything less than sexy, then I'll be back at my desk next week, reflecting on an American Dream that turned sour in the LA sun and writing up my Hollywood memoirs.

Ford's FeelFootball programme engages fans debate with Champions like Jose Mourinho, Anders Frisk, Patrick Vieira and Ruud Gullit online at www.FeelFootball.com and at live events around Europe.