December 2017. A man hovers on the pavement outside his local shed. He’s read all the stories, had all the encouragement. But still, his feet refuse to carry him any further.

His family’s words echo through his mind: “Give it a go. What have you got to lose? If you don’t like it, you needn’t go back.”

And yet, the doubts continue to ebb and flow. I don’t know anyone here. What if they don’t like me? I’m no good with my hands, what use am I to them? The door cracks ajar. A shaft of amber light spills out and the waft of fresh scones and sawdust takes flight on the swirling wind.

“How are you doing? Are you coming in?”

Out shoots a hand. He takes it, shakes it and his feet are once more his own. They’re right – what has he got to lose? One small step for man, he thinks, as he shuffles across the threshold.

The Beast from the East they called it. It was in those few days when the roads weren’t safe and the shed was snowed in that he realised how much he missed them all. He recognised the feeling. It was the same one he’d felt years and years before, when the doctor casually mentioned that it might be time to knock the football on the head.

In the weeks and months that followed, he realised that it wasn’t the cold Sunday mornings or the defenders’ elbows in his ribs that he missed. It was the slagging that flew around the dressing room before and after, the nicknames and the old jokes that still made you laugh on their hundredth telling. If he closed his eyes on a lively night in the shed, he could almost be back in the dressing room. Except he didn’t want to go back. For the first time in a long time, he was happy where he was.

Spring gave way to a blistering summer. He still hadn’t plucked up the courage to grab hold of a saw or a hammer in the workshop, but he realised that he didn’t care, and nor did anyone else. There were a million other things to do. He’d taken a few pictures when a local celebrity came to visit. One of the lads had put them up on Facebook and everyone in town had seen them.

But I’m not a photographer, he protested whenever a phone was thrust in his hand.

“You’re our photographer,” one of them said.

The longer nights brought a touch of something viral. It wasn’t serious, but he was in bed for a couple of weeks, getting re-acquainted with the dubious delights of daytime TV. Out of boredom one morning, he picked up his phone to find a missed call and a simple text message – “The lads r wundering if ur ok.” Do you know what? He thought to himself, I am.

December again. Jostling his way through the crowds of Christmas shoppers, a familiar voice drifted from the speakers.

“So this is Christmas…and what have you done?” It was a lyric that had always stopped him in his tracks. This time, he just smiled. Plenty, John. I’ve done plenty.

The last day before the shed breaks up for Christmas. High spirits, good cheer, tidings of comfort and joy. He waits to hear the punchline of a joke, then steps outside for a breath of fresh air as the laughter dies down.

There’s someone out there, under the streetlight. He doesn’t recognise the face, but he recognises the shuffling feet, the hesitancy. He thrusts his hand towards the figure on the pavement: “Are you coming in?”