The Dressing Room

In eleven seasons of reporting on the ups and downs of Norwich City, and watching upwards of fifty football matches a season, only twice did I make it into the Canaries' inner sanctum on match day, once before a kick-off and once after a final whistle. There were a number of reasons. The most obvious reason why it was not commonplace was that dressing rooms are, or rather were, looked upon as the players' home from home, the one safe place where they could get away from incessant public scrutiny, even if it was for only 15 minutes. The placing of a TV camera there, as seen occasionally nowadays, seems to me like rigging CCTV in a public loo. We just don't need to go there.
The before-match experience was at Huddersfield. I'd travelled with the team, eaten a light lunch with them,  and seen them into the dressing room when, to my surprise, the manager suddenly launched into his briefing.
To be honest, it was fairly mundane stuff. 'Try to unsettle them early on. Go for a quick goal and make them counter-attack. Play your normal game.'
He mentioned only two opposition players. One was a striker who favoured his left foot. 'Force him away, steer him towards the touchline.' The other was the opposition goalkeeper. 'He doesn't fancy high crosses,' the boss said. 'He flaps.' Then he turned to one of City's inside-forwards (which shows just how long ago it was) and said, 'Tickle him up a bit when you get the chance. Show him you're around and let him know he's got you coming straight at him when he goes for corners.'
The other dressing room occasion was at Bolton. City had lost heavily and many of the travelling fans were disgruntled. The team was slow-handclapped off the pitch, and afterwards there was a demonstration outside the players' entrance. When I went to the dressing room, having finished reporting duties, I could hear the City fans' rhymical clapping in the background and the chants, in unison, of 'You didn't even try . . . '
Inside the visitors' dressing room a first impression was the strong smell of embrocation and surgical spirit, and the second, a view of the sallow-faced players, still in their muddy kits, sitting quietly in postures of total exhaustion. The floor was a litter of bandages and bloodstained clumps of cotton wool. In one corner a player was being intermittently sick. Another rolled down his socks and showed me his shins, which were lined with bumps and dents accumulated over many seasons. Nearly all the players had bleeding places on their feet and legs, and so many bruises I couldn't really count.
Later, we all left by the players' entrance to find the team coach in the car park, the cries of the fans still ringing in our ears. 'You didn't even try . . . '
I thought, blimey, they tried. Harder than usual, actually. But on that day, nothing worked. Most of them were carrying wounds which, for us, would have raised the possibility of a week off from work. They, however, faced a coach journey back to Norwich, a day off, then training again on Tuesday. None of the wounds and bruises I saw would have healed by then.
So I don't think many fans quite realise the damage sustained by pro players, and the effects of accumulations of injuries sustained in what is, after all, a very close physical sport.