Matchfit Football: My Story

Hey, it’s James (founder of Matchfit Football)

If it’s cool with you, I’d like to share my personal story.

It’s about how I went from spending nine years at a pro club in England, training with the first team at sixteen, being told I’d never play again, spending almost four years in rehab, and then making a comeback against the Australian Hyundai A League Champions in my very first season back.

I’ve learned a lot from that journey about football, fitness, and what it really takes to reach the top. And I want to share it with you because:

• I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.

  
  

• I can help you save months, maybe even years, accelerate your progress, and avoid some of the biggest pitfalls that hold players back.

  
  

• So few players know this stuff, and it’s become my mission to change that.

It all started like this...

I spent nine years as a youth player at my local professional club, Wycombe Wanderers FC, who were in League One at the time.

Throughout those years, I was always mentioned as one of the few players with a real chance of making it as a pro.

I was confident, rarely injured, and consistently one of the top performers in my team. In fact, I was often training and playing with the older age group.

Football was everything to me. I trained relentlessly, and was completely focused on fulfilling my potential, probably just like you or your child is now.

In my head there was no doubt. I was going to sign on as a youth pro early and leave school at sixteen to train full time.

Since joining the academy at nine years old, everyone at the club had high expectations for me and seemed to follow my progress closely.

While I was at Wycombe, I even turned down opportunities with Southampton and Watford. I was happy where I was, developing well, and I saw leaving as an unnecessary risk.

When I had just turned sixteen, I was given the chance to train with the first team. I’d always been one of the bigger players for my age and had a good understanding of the game, so stepping into that first team session felt surprisingly natural. The main difference was the speed, but I was confident I’d adapt quickly with some more experience.

During that session, I found myself marking Nathan Tyson — an explosive striker who was in the England Under 21 squad at the time — and playing alongside Mike Williamson and Roger Johnson, who both went on to play in the Premier League for Newcastle United and Wolves.

The first team manager then was John Gorman, who had previously played for Tottenham and worked as England’s assistant manager.

It felt like the perfect environment to learn my trade.

After that initial taste of first team professional football, I was hooked.

All I could think about was earning my full first team debut by the time I turned eighteen. That was my new goal.

But things didn’t work out how I’d imagined.

At the time I couldn’t understand why. Looking back now, I can clearly see how I could have turned things around. But during that next season, everything seemed to fall apart.

Our age group was merged with the year above, and they were given priority because they were either about to sign youth pro contracts or be released.

We also had a new coach — and to put it bluntly, he was very old school.

Up until that season, I hadn’t been subbed once in eight years and was always captain. But this coach didn’t care about that history. He didn’t know me, and I quickly learned he didn’t rate my playing style either.

I was told to expect to start most games on the bench because “my turn” would come the following year.

To make things worse, he’d been what you’d call a "meat head" centre back in his own playing days for Leicester City, and he had no appreciation for the ball-playing style my previous coaches had instilled in me.

“Stop being on the ball so much and give it to a midfielder.”

That was his constant message.

I felt completely lost.

Everything he said went against what I’d been taught for years. My past coaches had praised my ability to stay calm under pressure and bring the ball out from centre back. Suddenly, I was being punished for doing it.

I can still remember one particular training session like it was yesterday. We were doing a keep-ball drill, and he suddenly stopped it mid-play.

“STOP!” he shouted.

He stormed over, took the ball straight off me, passed it to someone else, and turned back around.

“That’s not your job,” he barked.

“Just win the ball and give it to someone else. I’ve counted eight times you’ve been on the ball in the last two minutes. You’re a centre back.”

My teammates looked on in disbelief.

I didn’t know what to think. Should I change my game just to please him?

But then I’d remind myself of my real dream — not Wycombe’s first team, but Liverpool’s. And to play at that level, I knew I’d need to be comfortable on the ball.

Still, over the next couple of months, I was gradually pushed — or more accurately, bullied — into playing the way he wanted.

My new “role” was simple:

• Hit long balls into the channels.

  
  

• Head clear anything that came my way.

  
  

• Give the ball to a teammate as quickly as possible.

My form started to dip badly.

As my game time dropped, I began picking up injuries in training — something that had never really happened before.

My mindset started to shift too.

Week by week, I was becoming less aggressive. I began to fear being on the ball. For the first time in my life, I doubted my own ability.

I was a shadow of my former self.

I never stopped working hard, but that edge I once had was slipping away.

Before I knew it, I was competing for my professional contract with a new centre back the coach had brought in from his previous club.

He was, in my opinion, average at best.

Yet somehow, after only a few weeks at the club, he was being considered for the same contract I had worked eight years for.

I couldn’t believe it.

Eight years of dedication, and suddenly someone who had just arrived was in line to take what I’d spent my whole childhood chasing.

To make matters worse, the coach who first brought me into the club at eight years old — the same one who’d given me the chance to train with the first team — had just been sacked.

There wasn’t a single coach left at Wycombe who had been part of my journey or understood my potential.

I could see what was coming next.

It wasn’t a complete release… but it wasn’t what I wanted either.

A “non-contract” offer.

In other words: stay at school, train with us when you can, and we’ll see what happens.

No thanks.

It was time for a change.

Maybe I should focus on my studies for a while, I thought. Play semi-pro, regroup, and figure things out.

Looking back, I still find it hard to believe how far I fell at Wycombe.

Was the new coach to blame?

Absolutely. He played a huge part — no question about it.

There were six or seven players in our squad whose confidence and potential he completely destroyed. And he did actually get fired at the end of that season.

But here’s the truth I didn’t see at the time…

The real problem was that I didn’t take responsibility for my own development.

I expected others to bring the best out of me.I hoped my old form would magically return.

I blamed my coach whenever things went wrong. I kept waiting for someone new to come in and fix everything.

In reality, I was just feeling sorry for myself.

There were nights when I cried myself to sleep, completely lost and frustrated.

By the time I left Wycombe, my confidence was at rock bottom.

I have to be honest — I was reluctant to step down into semi-professional football. Not only because it felt like going backwards, but because my entire identity had been built around being “the guy who plays for a pro club.”

Without that, I didn’t know who I was anymore.

It was probably the lowest point of my football journey so far.

But, as I would later realise, it also became one of the most important turning points of my life.

(Setting off for my first game for Wycombe, age 9)

The logical thing to do was to focus on my studies and try to work my way back up to professional level by joining my local semi-pro team.

But this was never a situation I had imagined for myself.

Just eighteen months earlier, everything had been going so well that I pictured leaving school early to play football full time — not the other way around.

It was a complete reversal of everything I’d dreamed of.

To make things even harder, my older cousin Ciaran was on the verge of breaking into the Blackburn Rovers first team. He’d been an England prodigy all through his teenage years.

I was desperate to follow in his footsteps.

The hunger to get back to that level burned stronger than ever — but at that moment, I had no idea how I was going to get there.

I was determined to make it happen.

So I changed my mindset.

Playing semi-pro wasn’t a step back — it was a side step.

By leaving Wycombe, I had the chance to rediscover my old form in a new environment.

At first, I was embarrassed to admit to people that things hadn’t worked out. I knew some would be disappointed, and others would probably think less of me.

But I pushed that aside. Deep down, this whole experience had lit an even stronger fire inside me — a drive to prove to myself that I could still make it.

My time in semi-pro football started well. From the very first training session, I began to feel like my old self again. The enjoyment of playing returned, and with it came confidence.

I was playing freely, dominating attackers, and starting to rebuild that belief I’d lost.

But after a few months, something became clear.

The training intensity and structure were nowhere near what I’d been used to in a professional environment.

The mindset was different too. Losing didn’t seem to hurt as much, and failure was more easily accepted. None of my teammates shared the same ambition to reach the professional level.

That worried me.

I knew if I stayed in that environment for too long, it could start to affect me. My standards might begin to slip without me even realising, and the gap between where I was and where I wanted to be would only grow wider.

But at that point, I had no other club options and just one year of school left.

So I decided to ride it out until I had the freedom to make my next move.

And that decision ended up changing everything.

While captaining the county team in a cup final, I was spotted by one of the England Schoolboys U18's coaches.

He invited me to the first stage of the England trials — a seven-day training camp in the summer of 2007.

It wasn’t a route I had ever really considered before, but when I found out that players like Michael Owen, Ryan Giggs and Jermain Defoe had all represented England Schoolboys as teenagers, I was instantly inspired.

This was my chance to take control of my career again.

I decided to do everything I could to be ready, and that started with a few key changes.

1) I began training by myself.

It was up to me to make sure I arrived at the trials as fit and sharp as possible. I couldn’t rely on team sessions to prepare me anymore. Every day after school I went into the sports hall on my own and trained relentlessly.

I knew I wasn’t where I needed to be physically — I remembered how fit I was back at Wycombe, and I wasn’t at that level yet.

2) I surrounded myself with people who still believed in me.

I realised that the people around me had a huge impact on my confidence, energy, and motivation. I made a conscious effort to spend more time with those who understood what I was trying to achieve and who genuinely believed I could still make it.

3) I worked on developing a stronger mindset.

This one was massive. I needed to deal with the self-doubt that had crept in over the past couple of years.

I wanted to hit the trials full of confidence. I couldn’t let my form dip like it had before. I knew the coaches would be analysing everything — our behaviour, our body language, even what we ate.

Especially as a centre back, I understood that presence and leadership were everything.

Acting confident could unsettle a striker before a ball was even kicked.

These changes turned out to be crucial.

When day one of the training camp arrived, I felt more ready than I had in years.

Around sixty players from across the country showed up, all suited and booted, towing our kit bags and suitcases as we gathered in reception waiting to be assigned rooms.

There was no time to waste.

After a quick introduction, we were split into four groups. Forty-five minutes later, we were out on the pitches warming up for our first session.

The moment training started, I felt back at home.

The sessions were structured, intense, and professional. My group’s coach was from Aston Villa, and from the very first day he made his expectations clear.

Aimless long balls or thoughtless play were not acceptable.

If anyone resorted to that, the session was stopped immediately. He’d explain why that kind of football would never take you to the top.

“You’ll never reach the top if you can’t stay composed under pressure,” he said.

“You have to trust your ability to play your way out of trouble. It’s fine to make mistakes when you’re trying to do the right thing. Leave the long ball stuff to players who are happy at lower levels. You won’t find them here.”

That was the confirmation I’d been searching for since leaving Wycombe.

It reinforced everything I believed about how the game should be played and reminded me why I had resisted being turned into a no-nonsense, old-school defender.

We had a top coach, quality players, and I felt myself thriving in that environment again.

Lesson one: being in the right environment is absolutely crucial to your success.

That week also gave me another lesson — one that didn’t make full sense until a few years later.

There was one player in our group who really struggled. His performances were poor, his attitude was questionable, and it almost felt like he’d ended up there by accident.

Everyone noticed it — the players, the coaches, and eventually, so did he.

By the end of the week, he had almost given up trying. He knew he wasn’t going to be selected.

So why am I telling you this?

Because that same player went on to play professional football. He’s now captain of a League One club and has represented his country at full international level.

Lesson two: never think something is impossible. Take ownership of your own career, because not every player thrives in the same environment.

Even now, when I see him playing on TV, I still can’t quite believe it. But I’ll always respect him deeply. To go from where he was to where he is now is incredible.

Anyway…

That week turned out to be a huge success for me.

I was in the best form I’d been in for years, and at the end of the camp, the Aston Villa coach pulled me aside. He told me how impressed he was, and that he believed I had a very bright future.

For the first time in a long while, I felt certain that I was back on the right path.

A week later, a letter arrived. I had made it to the next stage of the England trials — they’d narrowed the squad down to thirty-five players.

I was absolutely buzzing. I called my family and close friends straight away to tell them the news.

I’d been so focused on training that I’d barely seen my mates in months. Naturally, they wanted to celebrate.

So, against my better judgement, I agreed to go along to a house party one Saturday night — just for a couple of hours.

I had no intention of drinking. I’d worked too hard to throw it away. I’d just show my face, relax a bit, and prove I still had a social life.

But the hosts had hired a huge inflatable assault course for the back garden… and that’s where things took an unexpected turn.

That’s when it happened.

I was standing on the platform at the top of the inflatable assault course with two friends from school. A rope ladder hung down on either side.

We were mid-conversation when one of them decided it would be funny to push me backwards off the platform onto the inflatable surface a few metres below.

If only that’s what had actually happened.

As I fell, my foot became caught in one of the rope ladders.

Pop.

That was the sound my knee made as my foot stayed trapped and the rest of my body was flung downward.

Pain shot through me like nothing I’d ever felt before.

I screamed and hung there helplessly while my mate tried to free my foot.

When I finally got down, I didn’t know whether to be angry or just break down completely. Tears filled my eyes as I tried to stand.

I knew instantly this was bad.

One split second of stupidity. That’s all it took.

The next day, a physio confirmed my worst fear — I had torn the medial ligament in my right knee.

To make it worse, I saw the guy who pushed me laughing about it later. He had no idea what he’d just cost me.

But deep down, I couldn’t stay angry. I knew it was on me. I shouldn’t have gone to that party, and I definitely shouldn’t have stepped foot on that inflatable.

I did it because I didn’t want to seem boring. I wanted to keep everyone happy.

Lesson three: sometimes you have to make sacrifices, put yourself first, and accept that you can’t please everyone.

You can’t expect others to care about your goals as much as you do. Act in line with your ambitions and surround yourself with people who understand them and will help keep you on track.

This was a complete disaster.

Not only could I no longer train properly for the next England trials — which were just six weeks away — but the physio told me I’d be out for at least ten weeks.

That wasn’t an option.

One way or another, I had to find a way to be ready.

We were told that in the next trial, only five players would be cut. It would be a single ninety-minute match, and the remaining thirty would progress to a series of training camps at Lilleshall.

That gave me hope.

If I could just survive that ninety minutes, I’d have six more weeks to get fully fit for the next stage.

Fast forward six weeks.

It was match day.

I arrived at the ground filled with excitement, nerves, and a quiet prayer that my knee would hold up.

Then I saw the team sheet.

Number 4 — Donnelly. Number 5 — Smalling.

I looked around for “Smalling,” keen to chat through our plan for the game before warm-up.

But he wasn’t there.

Minutes passed, still no sign.

Eventually, we were told to head out and begin our warm-up without him.

About five minutes before the warm-up ended, a skinny lad with an afro came sprinting onto the pitch, hurriedly shoving his shin pads down his socks and apologising to the coach for being late.

“Get yourself warmed up, you’re starting, just!” the coach barked.

I honestly think if he’d been ten seconds later, he’d have spent the whole match on the bench — or maybe wouldn’t have played at all.

But fate was clearly on his side that day.

The match went well.

My knee just about held together, and I was pleased with how I performed. But the best part was how quickly Chris and I clicked at centre back.

From the very first few minutes, it just worked. Our styles seemed to complement each other perfectly, and we developed an almost telepathic understanding on the pitch.

Why was I particularly happy about that?

Because the coaches had noticed too.

The way Chris and I played together didn’t go unnoticed. Our chemistry gave us both an advantage when it came to selection — we were likely to be the first names on the team sheet, with the rest of the side built around our calm, composed centre back partnership.

A week later, the letter arrived.

Boom. I’d made the cut.

They’d actually reduced the squad to twenty-seven instead of thirty, which made it even more satisfying.

Now my focus shifted back to rehabbing my knee and preparing for the first training camp at Lilleshall in six weeks’ time.

As you probably know, “Smalling” went on to play for Manchester United and England.

He’s represented his country at the World Cup and the European Championships, won the Champions League, and lifted the Premier League trophy.

I’m not mentioning that to brag about having played alongside him — that’s not my intention at all. It’s to make an important point.

When I first met Chris, he was eighteen and had never spent more than a few weeks at a professional club.

Was he a good player? Yes.

Was he clearly better than everyone else? No.

But he was confident on the ball, incredibly fit, and carried himself with belief.

The reason I share this is to remind you never to write yourself off. You never truly know what opportunities are waiting around the corner.

Don’t convince yourself that you’ve missed your chance or that you’re not good enough.

It’s up to you to find out how far you can go.

And if you ever need proof that it’s possible, just remember this story — because it could just as easily be you.

Smalling (Left), Me (Right) November 2007

Just 2 years later. Never Write Yourself Off.

Just to recap…

I’d made it down to the final twenty-seven players for the next stage of the England Schoolboys trials at Lilleshall.

If you’re not familiar with Lilleshall, it was the national training centre for elite English sport for many years.

Imagine Hogwarts surrounded by football pitches.

It’s the same place where the 1966 England team spent two weeks preparing for the World Cup — the historic equivalent of today’s St George’s Park.

Despite playing a full ninety minutes in the trial match six weeks earlier, the stress of that game had set my medial ligament injury almost back to square one.

By the time the next trials came around, I’d managed to get it to about eighty per cent, but I was still worried about my fitness.

Even if my knee held out, I’d only played one match in the last twelve weeks — and that had been six weeks ago.

Not exactly ideal preparation for an England trial.

And this one was no ordinary trial.

The schedule was brutal: daily fitness testing, multiple training sessions, and several matches packed into three intense days.

As the days went on, I managed to control my knee pain fairly well.

It did limit me slightly on the pitch, but I began to realise that most of what I was feeling might have been mental rather than physical.

The real issue was my lack of match fitness.

The standard was a clear step up — faster, sharper, and more demanding than anything I’d experienced before.

Many of the players there were from big clubs — Everton, Tottenham, Arsenal, Leicester — and had been playing at a professional intensity for years.

To everyone else, I might have looked fine, but inside I was struggling badly.

Every time the ball went out of play, I was gasping for air. Every time I got the ball, I passed it quickly, just to steal a few more seconds of recovery before the next wave of pressure hit.

Despite my struggles, I still felt I’d done enough to make it through to the final trial weekend — but one thing was clear. My fitness had to improve dramatically over the next four weeks.

There was no escaping it. My performance at Lilleshall had taken a hit compared to my earlier trials.

Technically I was strong, but it was obvious to anyone watching that I lacked match sharpness. Against players who had been training and playing at top academies week in, week out, that gap was easy to see.

Still, I got the nod. I’d made it to the final stage of the England Schoolboys trials.

Another round of cuts had been made, and we were now down to twenty-four players. Only twenty would make the final squad.

Over the next four weeks, I became obsessed with fitness.

I wanted to push myself as hard as possible — to leave no doubt that I was ready.

At that stage, I didn’t know much about proper football-specific training, so I simply trained harder and longer, believing that was the answer.

To the best of my knowledge, it seemed to be working.

A week before the final trial, I hit level seventeen in the beep test — my highest score ever. I was buzzing.

But then I remembered something from before.

When my centre back partner, Smalling, had submitted his fitness test results at an earlier trial, his response had simply been:

“I completed it.”

He said it straight-faced, almost embarrassed. But no one laughed. No one doubted it for a second.

His work rate and stamina were on another level. As Sir Alex Ferguson once said about him, it was as if he had “an extra set of lungs.”

I wanted to push myself to that standard.

So, I decided to end my fitness crash course with a fifteen-mile run — my grand finale.

Then I’d rest for three days before the final trial.

I still remember my dad driving me to the start point and explaining where he’d pick me up. It was freezing that day, and before long, snow started falling.

The icy air burned my lungs, but I kept going. Once I found my rhythm, I pushed through, driven by pure determination.

By the time I reached the finish line, I was utterly exhausted. My eyes were watering, my face was raw from the cold, and I could barely stand upright.

Was that run really a good idea?

A few hours later, I started to feel off — lightheaded and shivery. I decided to get an early night, hoping some sleep would fix it.

The next morning, I woke with that horrible, all-too-familiar feeling.

Flu.

I was bedridden for the next three days.

Even now, that decision still haunts me. Not only was it a completely inappropriate way to train for football, it left me run-down, scrawny, and sick as a dog in the week of the most important trial of my life.

But at the time, I didn’t know any better. I thought hard work alone was enough.

Despite feeling awful, I pulled myself together and found a way to perform. I played with more freedom, trusted myself again, and rebuilt the partnership with Chris at centre back.

By the final day, our confidence was growing. A fixture had been arranged against the Royal Navy first XI — the last chance to prove we belonged.

(That's me age 18 - top right, number 6)

The coaches saw this as the perfect final test — putting us up against a team of extremely physical, ruthlessly conditioned grown men.

I’ll never forget the buzz of that day.

Walking into the changing room with our England kits perfectly laid out, hearts pounding after a spectacular team talk:

“Today you are representing England. No matter what happens, nobody can ever take that away from you. This is a day you’ll tell your grandchildren about. Now go out there and do your country proud.”

I was fired up.

And what followed was, in my opinion, my best performance of the entire process.

In my head, I’d redeemed myself after the previous trial.

There were five centre backs in total, and I felt that by some distance, Chris and I were the strongest two — whether we played alongside each other or not.

I left the trials quietly confident and relieved. I felt I’d done enough.

The coaches told us they’d announce the final squad of twenty players by Thursday.

Those who made it would represent England against Ireland, Wales, Australia and Scotland in the Centenary Shield at Wembley.

The wait that week felt endless.

I cycled through every emotion — nervous, excited, hopeful, anxious, uncertain.

Thursday finally arrived.

The day my entire football career — and reputation at school — felt like it was hanging in the balance.

Every minute dragged like an hour. I just wanted to know.

Then it happened.

I’d just got home from school when I saw a new post on my Facebook wall from one of the other players.

“Congratulations mate! Buzzing to be in the squad with you!”

My heart leapt.

I punched the air and grabbed the phone to call my dad.

But mid-call, I refreshed the page. The post had disappeared.

“That’s odd,” I thought.

I refreshed again.

And again.

Nothing.

The post was gone.

My stomach dropped.

Maybe he wasn’t supposed to share the news publicly? Maybe it was an honest mistake?

But as time went on, the sinking feeling grew. My letter still hadn’t arrived, and the player wasn’t replying to my messages.

An hour later, it was confirmed.

I hadn’t made the final twenty.

I was on standby instead — which, to me, felt like a polite way of saying I’d missed out.

The player had simply posted on my wall by mistake, assuming I was on the list.

The emotional crash was brutal.

One moment pure elation. The next, complete devastation.

I went straight to my room and locked the door. My parents knew better than to try to comfort me. I needed to sit with it — to process it alone.

It was one of the most character-building days of my life.

As it turned out, a midfielder who could also fill in at centre back had taken my place, since the manager planned to play only three at the back during the international fixtures.

That taught me an important lesson.

It took me right back to my time at Wycombe Wanderers, when the coach there had told me I couldn’t be a “ball-playing” centre back.

Even though I’d started to find my old form again after leaving, there was no denying the damage had been done.

I’d become self-conscious about carrying the ball into midfield. I often took the safe option instead of trusting myself to drive forward like I used to.

That small shift — that hesitation — proved to be the difference.

This was the real feedback the England Schoolboys manager sent to my school after my final trial:

“James made an impression immediately with his dominant performances as a very effective central defender. His attitude to coaching sessions was exemplary, and he established himself early as a contender for international selection.

This promise was evident throughout the trials. He performed extremely well again and had a solid game against the Royal Navy, helping his team to a 3–1 win.

To say he missed selection for the final twenty by a whisker would be accurate. He certainly would have been selected in a number of previous squads in the years I have been involved.

He was unfortunate that in this particular season he was up against three other excellent central defenders who, in our opinion, just had an edge on him in terms of comfort on the ball and their ability to bring it out from the back third. (One of those players has since signed a three-year contract with Fulham, so James certainly had strong competition.)”

I couldn’t believe it.

The very thing I’d been told to stop doing at Wycombe was now the exact reason I’d missed out on representing England.

And the painful part was — they were right.

I’d lost a little of what once set me apart.

I was still the same defender, but that confidence to bring the ball out of defence — the part of my game that once defined me — had been dulled.

Before, I’d do it almost every time I could. Now, I hesitated.

That slight change in mindset was enough to make the difference.

As it turned out, Chris went on to play for Manchester United and England, Aaron later played in the Premier League for Southampton, and Johnny — the midfielder who could also play in defence — joined Leeds United before a career-ending injury cut things short.

All three of them were scouted in the matches that followed the final trial.

I’m going to reveal what happened after I failed to make the final England Schoolboys squad of twenty.

During the trials, a representative from the US college football system had tried to convince us to consider continuing our careers in America.

But that never really appealed to me.

The season was short, and it always felt like settling for second best. I still wanted to play professionally in England.

Some of the lads did take that route and went on to play in the MLS, but I’d also heard plenty of stories about players heading there only to return home a few months later.

At the time, I was still playing for my local semi-pro team, with just a few months of the season left before finishing school.

My plan was simple: complete the season, then dedicate all my time to getting back into professional football once school was over.

Most of my mates had already applied to university, but I was all in on taking a gap year to figure things out.

I started looking at football training camps in different countries, planning to get back in shape while contacting clubs to arrange trials. It all made sense.

That was the plan.

Until it all came crashing down.

I can still picture the moment vividly.

It was a midweek evening match. The pitch was slick from earlier rain — perfect conditions, in my opinion.

In the second half, I faced a one-on-one with one of their midfielders. He was built like a tank.

As he sprinted towards me, I positioned myself side-on, showing him down the line. He tried to knock the ball past me and chase it, but as we matched strides, I managed to block it with my left foot.

The ball stopped.

He didn’t.

At full speed, he collided into the inside of my left thigh, forcing my leg open and landing with his full weight on top of my left knee.

Instantly, I felt a deep, unfamiliar pain shoot through my left hip.

Something didn’t feel right.

I tried to shake it off, telling myself it was probably just a knock. But after ten minutes, I could barely move.

The physio reassured me it was just a groin strain — nothing serious.

I wish he’d been right.

That moment marked the beginning of a nightmare that ended my football career.

I rested for a week, played the next game, came off injured.

Rested for a week, played, came off injured. Over and over again.

That cycle repeated at least ten times.

Each week my coach pressured me to play, telling me to just “do what I could.”

Meanwhile, the physio kept insisting it was only a groin strain and began questioning whether I was even doing the rehab properly.

Eventually, things came to a head. My coach pulled me aside and accused me of faking the injury — claiming I was making excuses to avoid playing.

I was stunned. Furious.

But in a way, he wasn’t completely wrong. Not that I was faking it — but being pushed to play while injured had drained all the enjoyment out of football for me.

I was tired of being at sixty per cent, tired of ruining my own reputation by limping through matches.

I stuck it out until the end of the season, but it was a disaster.

Ten minutes into one game, still carrying what they thought was a groin strain…

Pow.

As I struck the ball, a sharp pain ripped through my right thigh. My quad had torn.

Every attempt to kick the ball sent stabbing pain through my leg. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t pass.

That was it. I was finished.

I took matters into my own hands and booked an MRI scan.

What followed was brutal.

The doctor sat me down, X-ray and MRI in hand, and said flatly:

“You should have chosen something like art or writing as a career, because there’s no way you’re playing football again. If you carry on, you’ll be in a wheelchair within five years.”

The scans revealed a labral tear in my left hip and cartilage levels lower than those of a fifty-year-old man.

The pain I’d been feeling came from the torn labrum combined with friction and swelling — the early onset of osteoarthritis.

Years of heavy training had contributed to the wear, but repeatedly playing through the injury had accelerated everything, causing lasting damage.

Surgery would leave my hip too unstable to play. Continuing would destroy it completely.

I had no way out.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Your football career is over. There’s nothing that can be done.”

I turned to my mum. My face was blank, eyes glazed over. She stared back, tears building in hers.

That day changed everything for me — but not in the way you might think.

The blunt, careless way the doctor broke the news lit a fire inside me. I was angry. Angry enough to prove him wrong.

At that time, I couldn’t even jog without feeling the grinding, pinching pain in my hip. It showed no sign of easing.

But right there in that hospital room, I made a decision.

“I’m going to prove this doctor wrong. I’ll play again. And not only that — I’ll get paid for it.”

My gap year plans were gone.

So, reluctantly, I applied to university to study Sports Science — literally a day before the UCAS deadline.

If I had any chance of coming back, I needed to understand my body properly. I couldn’t play football the next year anyway, so I might as well learn everything I could.

From the moment the first semester started, I made every assignment about my injury — determined to find answers.

Important lesson:

Playing through injuries is one of the biggest mistakes a footballer can make. I made two massive errors that I want you to learn from.

1. Neglecting strength and mobility.

At Wycombe Wanderers, even as young players, we did regular bodyweight strength and mobility work alongside training. At my semi-pro club, we did none. It wasn’t valued or understood.

In nine years at Wycombe, I had two injuries. At my semi-pro club, I was constantly surrounded by teammates struggling with knocks and strains.

2. Playing through pain.

When you keep playing injured, you don’t just make the injury worse — you change how your body moves. Other muscles start overworking to compensate, creating strength imbalances. Some muscles switch off entirely while others become overactive.

If you’re avoiding strength work and constantly playing through niggles, you’re a ticking time bomb.

That’s what I was.

An injury waiting to happen.

So, I’d just enrolled in a Sports Science course at university, determined to understand my body better and figure out how to fix myself.

But I’ll be honest — even then, I was still trying to play football with my injury, despite the doctor’s warning to stop.

I was completely in denial.

I convinced myself that if I managed my training carefully and took a cocktail of anti-inflammatories and supplements every day, I could just about get through sessions.

I wasn’t the same player, not even close, but I told myself that playing once a week was better than not playing at all.

Deep down, I was clinging to my identity. I was addicted to being “the football guy.”

That was who I was. It was how people saw me, and I wasn’t ready to let that go.

Using the football CV I’d built up over the years, I applied for a Strength and Conditioning scholarship at the university. Only a handful of athletes were accepted each year, and I managed to get in.

I massively downplayed the extent of my injury when applying, but they agreed to help me rebuild and get back to form.

It felt like a small victory — the first glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could still find my way back.

The scholarship included one-to-one training with the head of strength and conditioning at the university, a personalised training programme, and a £10,000 bursary to fund equipment and travel to matches while studying.

It was an incredible opportunity.

Through that scholarship, I learned more about training and the human body than ever before. I started making strength and speed gains I hadn’t even thought were possible.

But one thing wouldn’t change — the grinding, pinching pain in my hip.

It was always there, a constant reminder of what I was fighting against.

I felt the strongest and the weakest I’d ever felt, both physically and mentally.

Still, I kept pushing.

I told myself I could play through it. I just needed to get through one more training session, one more game.

During that time, I was playing for Eastleigh FC while studying, and by the end of my second year at university, I made my first-team debut in the English Conference National.

It felt like proof that all the pain, persistence and stubbornness might finally be paying off.

They knew about my condition but were happy to help me manage it so that I could keep playing.

Looking back, I wish they’d just told me to stop being an idiot and face the truth.

By the end of that season, I’d broken into the first team — but I was in more pain than ever.

I knew I had no choice. It was time to hang up my boots.

Sure enough, when the off-season came around, the doctor confirmed my condition had worsened since the previous year.

I still wanted to ignore him, but this time I couldn’t. I could barely move.

What now?

I remember sitting there, completely lost, racking my brain for answers.

Then it came to me.

“What if there’s a way to feel what footballers feel — without actually being a footballer?”

The only thing that had ever come close to giving me that same buzz as playing was the strength and conditioning training I’d done during my scholarship. The benefits had blown my mind.

It served two purposes straight away.

First, it allowed me to stay involved in an elite football environment. Second, the more I learned, the better my chances of one day finding a way back to the game.

That was it. I was sold. I went all in.

After graduating with my Sports Science degree, I completed my personal training qualification, my Level 4 Strength and Conditioning certification, and a diploma in football-specific strength and conditioning.

I wasn’t interested in any other sport. My focus was completely on football.

I had no intention of working with athletes from other backgrounds — I saw that as time that could be better spent deepening my expertise in football fitness training.

If I ever studied another sport, it was only to see what I could apply to footballers.

So, armed with this new knowledge, I set about creating my own comeback plan.

I didn’t know if it would ever lead to me playing again, but I had to try.

Fast forward two and a half years — still no comeback.

I was leaner, stronger, and fitter than ever, but my hip still gave me pain whenever I ran for longer than ten minutes.

I needed a change.

I’d heard about Australia — how advanced their sports science facilities were, how much emphasis they placed on athletic development, and how many opportunities there were to work in elite sport.

So I made a decision. I’d move there for a year and see what doors it might open.

From the moment I arrived, I was hooked. I fell in love with the country, the lifestyle, and the way they approached sport and performance.

But more importantly, this was where I had the breakthrough moment.

The air was dry, warm, and completely different to what I was used to back home.

It might sound simple, but that one factor changed my life forever.

The warmth dramatically reduced my joint pain and swelling.

For the first time in years, I could move freely. I could train longer, push harder, and stay pain-free.

I completely restructured my training programme.

Because I was constantly on the move, I didn’t have access to a gym, so I relied entirely on bodyweight training.

That became another breakthrough.

Week after week, I noticed improvements that I’d never been able to achieve in the UK.

The cold, damp weather back home had always aggravated my hip, but here in Australia, my body finally had a chance to adapt.

I started to master strength and movement in ways I’d never considered before — using nothing but my own bodyweight.

I knew I was onto something special.

But time was running out. My visa was about to expire, and without a renewal, I’d have to leave Australia.

If you know how the system works, the only way to get a second-year visa is by completing three months of regional work — usually on a farm.

I thought the rule was ridiculous. But if that’s what it took to stay, I was willing to do it.

So, I gritted my teeth and took a three-month job on a pig farm.

It was everything you can imagine and worse — gut-wrenching conditions, endless filth, and back-breaking work.

To top it off, the farm was called Dead Horse Gully.

You couldn’t make it up. It was like something straight out of a nightmare.

(My final day on the farm)

I still look back on that time in complete disbelief.

How had I gone from playing professional football to working on a pig farm?

Don’t get me wrong — I don’t say that because I thought I was too good for the job. It was more that the whole experience opened my eyes to just how brutal that kind of work can be.

The conditions were beyond anything I’d ever imagined — raw, harsh, and at times genuinely horrific.

But that’s a story for another day.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have wished that experience on my worst enemy.

Still, every afternoon when I clocked off, I made a beeline for either the gym or the nearest football pitches.

No matter how exhausted or filthy I was, I trained.

I was still chasing the comeback.

(I relied on all if this to get through training and help myself recover quicker)

As the weeks went by, I started to feel good. I felt mobile again, lighter on my feet. But as you probably know, “feeling good” after an injury doesn’t always mean you’re truly ready for the demands of a match.

I knew I needed to test myself in a competitive environment — to find out if all the progress I’d made would actually hold up under pressure.

So, I reached out to a local club called Young Lions FC.

From the very first conversation, I knew I’d found something special. The team was made up of some of the friendliest and most supportive lads I’d ever met.

The coach understood my situation straight away. He empathised with what I’d been through and told me I was welcome to train and play with them whenever I felt able to.

If I had to pull out halfway through a session or sit on the sidelines, there were no questions, no judgment. He completely supported what I was trying to do.

Looking back, I honestly don’t think my comeback would ever have happened without those guys.

Being able to play in matches without pressure or expectation was the final missing piece of my recovery.

I’ll always be grateful to them for giving me that chance.

By continuing to follow my own training programme while carefully managing my game time with Young Lions FC, my body slowly began to unlock.

After about ten matches, something incredible happened.

For the first time in over four years, I was able to train and play regularly — completely pain free.

The grinding sensation in my hip had faded. The stiffness around my pelvis had released. The swelling that used to force me to sit out was gone.

My body had finally been liberated.

And then, as fate would have it, everything changed again.

One night, after a quick Google search, I discovered that one of my old coaches from Wycombe Wanderers was now living in Australia — coaching in the National Premier League.

This was the coach I had thrived under at Wycombe. He had always believed in my ability and encouraged my ball-playing style when others didn’t.

I reached out to him straight away, and to my surprise, he invited me for a trial as soon as I finished my regional work.

The moment my time on the pig farm ended, I packed my bags and jumped on a flight to Brisbane.

The National Premier League was the second tier of Australian football — just below the Hyundai A-League.

I knew that if I could stay fit and earn a contract, it could become the perfect stepping stone towards reaching the top level again.

When I arrived at that trial, I felt nervous, excited, and more alive than I had in years.

For the first time since my injury, I felt truly at home again.

I was introduced to the rest of the squad and was immediately taken aback by how many English players were on the same mission as me — chasing a second chance.

The team was full of talent. There were players who had previously represented Manchester United, Celtic, Anderlecht, and even Australia, alongside some of the country’s best up-and-coming prospects.

I quickly realised this wasn’t unique to our club. Across the National Premier League, there were players who had once been part of huge clubs like Liverpool, all hoping to reignite their careers and climb back into the A-League.

The standard was high. The training sessions were sharp, competitive, and professional. The environment was exactly what I had been craving — focused, ambitious, and built around players who lived and breathed football.

Under the guidance of my old coach, I began to rediscover myself. I slipped back into my old rhythm, bringing the ball out from the back with confidence and belief — the very style that had once defined me.

And then, the moment I’d been waiting for arrived.

I was offered a contract.

I could hardly believe it. After everything I’d been through — the setbacks, the pain, the years of uncertainty — it finally felt like the dream was alive again.

It was surreal. I’d gone from being told I’d never play football again to signing a professional contract on the other side of the world.

Me (Left) Reunited With Ex Wycombe Wanderers FC Coach (Right)

I remember just twelve months earlier thinking I would need a miracle to ever play again, and now here I was signing a contract to get paid to play football.

There are no words to describe that feeling.

I had my identity back, and I was hungrier than ever.

And then fortune struck again.

Because I signed just before the final match of the season, I now had the entire off-season to prepare my body for the year ahead.

The first month of matches included fixtures against the A League champions Brisbane Roar and an international game against the Malaysian National Team.

To go from nothing to this in a matter of months… I was buzzing.

I was now:

• Training on the pitch three to four times per week

  
  

• Playing one to two matches a week

  
  

• Training in the gym four to five times per week

  
  

• Getting paid to play

  
  

• Pain-free ninety-five percent of the time

I was in dreamland.

Living in Australia, training on a pitch that looked like a snooker table, and getting paid to do it.

Even now, tears sometimes fill my eyes when I look back. I remember praying for a miracle, hoping something like this might one day be possible…

And suddenly it was real.

I used to literally pinch myself to make sure it wasn’t some cruel dream.

Now look, I get it — this wasn’t a debut for Real Madrid.

But from where I had been only eighteen months earlier, I may as well have been lining up with Messi and Ronaldo.

The chances of me coming back from that injury really were that slim.

To simply be able to play competitive football again — I felt like the luckiest person alive.

The odds were stacked against me.

People’s opinions were stacked against me.

And I do not share this to brag.

I share it to make a point:

1. It is not up to anyone else to decide what is possible for you.

   
   

2. Nobody can predict your future (not even you).

   
   

3. Far crazier things have happened in football than anything you dream of right now.

   
   

So much of this game is mindset, persistence, and trusting that if you follow your passion, things work out in the end.

Do not chase success.

Position yourself so that success flows to you.

Success is a consequence of your daily habits and your belief system.

Did Chris Smalling know he would go on to play for Manchester United and England when he was eighteen and still had never been part of a professional academy long-term?

Not a chance.

But he made sure he was as fit as humanly possible and took care of himself when he was still playing non-league for Maidstone United.

Did I ever think I would end up captaining a team in the Australian National Premier League and getting paid to play football again?

Not in a million years.

We simply put ourselves in the best possible position for something like that to happen.

I became captain five games after signing — not because I chased the armband, but because I put myself in the environment where success naturally flowed.

So many young players think world-class professionals only start working hard once they “make it.”

No.

They were doing the work for years beforehand, unseen, without applause, driven from within.

Those habits — in combination with talent — place them in the position where success finds them.

There are so many talented players who never understand this crucial truth:

Your daily habits must match the level of success you say you want.

In my first season back, we faced the A League champions Brisbane Roar.

We lost 3-0.

It was actually quite a tight match, but in the final ten minutes their superior fitness showed and they scored twice.

The match was behind closed doors as it was a pre-season friendly, but believe it or not, I managed to find an amateur recording of part of it on YouTube.

In the changing room after the match, I looked around at my teammates — and about ninety-five percent of them were smiling. Myself included.

Why were we smiling after losing?

Because we all realised something in that moment.

There was no real difference in technical ability between us and the A-League Champions. The difference on the night was purely physical.

Every one of us had the talent to fit right into their team if we were just that little bit fitter.

It’s easy to convince yourself that certain levels are unattainable, but more often than not, the difference is only millimetres.

The key difference is that the players already at that level have had a head start.

The longer you wait to start training in a way that matches your ambitions, the wider the gap grows every single day.

Can you really expect to keep up with a player who’s technically on the same level as you, but has five extra years of conditioning behind them?

Maybe for a few games you could — but over a season, there’s only going to be one winner. Your body simply won’t be able to handle the demands.

What frustrates me most is when I meet a young, driven player who’s training hard, giving everything — but doing the wrong type of training.

It breaks my heart, because I see myself in them.

I remember being that kid — desperate to improve, doing what I thought was right, but actually damaging my body and wasting precious time.

During my comeback, I learned more about how to truly prime the body for football performance than I had in all my years before. And I felt an urgent need to share that knowledge with others.

So, alongside playing, I began coaching one-to-one football conditioning sessions with youth players — showing them that being Matchfit isn’t just about training, it’s a lifestyle.

But eventually, I hit a wall.

Have you ever felt like there’s a glass ceiling stopping you from breaking through?

That’s exactly how I felt in Australia.

For me, the joy of football has always come from progress — from the feeling that it can take you somewhere new.

I was never the type to play Sunday League football purely for fun. For me, the enjoyment came from pushing my limits and striving to play at the highest level possible.

It might sound blunt, but I’ve always believed that if you’re going to do something, do it properly — or don’t do it at all.

There’s no room for dabbling if you want to succeed.

That said, I have huge respect for those who play simply for love of the game. It’s just not how I’m wired.

I was in Australia to reach the A-League — not to make up the numbers at NPL level.

Over time, though, I began to realise that talent alone might not be enough to get noticed as an overseas player.

Visa complications, networking barriers, and a clear disconnect between the NPL and the A-League made progression difficult.

I’m not saying I deserved an opportunity, but I genuinely felt I was better than many of the centre backs playing in that league.

Yet there wasn’t even a whisper of an opportunity on the horizon, and no clear pathway from where I was to where I wanted to be.

I had to trust my gut.

After two solid seasons in the NPL, I felt it was time to make a change.

It was time to stop dabbling with Matchfit Football and take it seriously.

That had always been the long-term plan — but now it felt urgent.

I realised Matchfit wasn’t just another football idea. It addressed two major things:

1. A cultural problem in football.

   
   

2. A gap that I desperately needed filled when I was younger.

I’d heard all the old myths:

“Footballers don’t need muscle, it’ll slow them down.”

“Technical skill is more important than strength.”“Strength training stunts growth.”“It’ll make players too sore to train.”

“It’s not safe for kids.”

I could go on forever.

The problem is, when it comes to fitness, everyone has an opinion — even if they’re completely unqualified to have one.

So, in my determination to prove them wrong, I began searching for proof that, behind closed doors, every top professional was strength training.

I spent hours every day scouring the internet, hunting for video evidence of the world’s best players working in the gym.

I believed that if players could see it for themselves — if they could watch Ronaldo, Messi, and other pros training in the gym — it would change their mindset. It would inspire them to follow suit.

If I wanted to change football culture, I had to make strength and conditioning for footballers look cool — not like a boring extra chore.

And that’s how the Matchfit Football Instagram page was born.

A place where I shared videos of world-class footballers doing gym-based training, with explanations of how each exercise improved on-pitch performance.

I wanted my own players to see this content daily — to stay motivated, to keep learning, and to build belief in what they were doing.

But I also hoped it would have a ripple effect and inspire footballers everywhere.

And that’s exactly what started to happen, thanks to the power of social media.

Matchfit Football became the first page online where footballers at any level could gain a genuine insight into elite-level strength and conditioning.

How do I know that?

Because I was the person who had spent years searching for something like it — and couldn’t find anything.

So, after a journey that took me from nine years at a professional club, through four years of injury, despair, and rebuilding, all the way to getting paid to play in Australia...

I now found myself standing at another crossroads.

A life-changing decision was ahead of me.

Do I keep playing football, even though the chance of progressing was getting smaller?

Or was it time to thank the universe for everything I had achieved and go all in with Matchfit?

Both sides of my life had reached full capacity.

I was training and playing as much as possible, and I simply didn’t have the time to take on any more players.

It was a good problem to have, but it made one thing clear: I had to choose a path.

Knowing me, you might think that stepping away from playing sounded like defeat. The chance of reaching the A League might have been small, but it wasn’t impossible, right?

True. But I had to be realistic about the bigger picture.

My hip cartilage was still deteriorating. I was mostly pain free, but the damage was permanent. Continuing to play just for the sake of it was pushing me closer to an early hip replacement. I would have accepted that risk to play full time professional football, but not for the level I was currently at.

Even if I did get a trial with a professional club, one medical scan would have exposed the truth: my playing years at the top level were limited.

Would a club sign a player in his mid twenties with a serious injury history over a younger, healthy player developed in their own system? Of course not. And I couldn’t blame them.

So, I asked myself a different question.

What if Matchfit Football could allow me to stay involved in elite football, to coach, to influence, and to impact the game at a higher level than my body could now take me as a player?

That thought changed everything.

I realised that I was getting just as much of a buzz from coaching as I ever did from playing. Seeing players improve, hearing their feedback, and knowing I was helping them achieve what I once dreamed of lit a new fire inside me.

Every spare minute I had was spent building Matchfit, learning, testing, refining, and expanding my knowledge.

I had once obsessed over perfecting my own performance. Now I was obsessed with helping others perfect theirs.

I saw a clear problem in football culture, the same one that had held me back, and I became determined to help players everywhere avoid the same mistakes.

My decision was made. Any time spent playing was time taken away from solving something much bigger.

It was time to dedicate myself fully to Matchfit Football.

So, I sat down with my coach and told him I would be moving back to England. It was a tough conversation. We had come full circle after ten years since our Wycombe days, but he understood completely.

A few months later, I was back in England coaching players one to one full time in my own facility while continuing to expand my knowledge in football strength and conditioning.

Because in this game, learning never stops.

That was when I decided to take my education even further and complete a Master’s degree in Football Strength and Conditioning.

During that time, I had the privilege of being mentored by sports scientists from some of the biggest clubs in the world, including Real Madrid, Barcelona, and PSG.

Now I pass that same knowledge and those same methods on to my players, preparing them for professional and international football using the same systems and principles used by the world’s elite.

Things were going well, but I soon hit another wall.

I found myself repeating the same things over and over again. There are only so many hours in a day, and one to one coaching can only reach so far.

That is when it hit me.

The problem I wanted to solve in football culture could not be fixed one session at a time.

Players were relying on me each week to make progress. That is not real development.

If I wanted to create a lasting impact, I had to educate players and teach them how to train at an elite level completely on their own.

That way, I could help players all over the world and separate those who were truly committed from those who only talked about being successful.

So, I began packaging everything I had learned — my journey, my experience with elite coaches, my academic knowledge, and every method that helped me rebuild from the ground up — into a format that could be accessed anywhere in the world.

Speed, stamina, strength, mobility, confidence, injury prevention, nutrition, and fitness testing. Every pillar a player needs to reach their potential.

This is the same science backed system that world class professionals use to stay at the top of their game.

And the truth is, these principles work for every level. What matters is not where you are right now, but where you want to go and how you apply them.

Today, Matchfit Football has helped tens of thousands of players across more than seventy countries.

And while I do miss playing, and it still stings sometimes knowing I cannot step on the pitch, I remind myself that the knowledge I have now could have completely changed my career if I had known it at sixteen.

But that is in the past.

What matters now is helping players just like you reach the levels I once dreamed of.

That is a purpose I am proud to dedicate my life to.

It is incredibly rare to achieve something special completely on your own. If you know deep down that you have what it takes to play at a higher level, but you are being held back by self doubt, poor stamina, lack of strength, or recurring injuries, you are exactly who I built Matchfit Football for.

If you have the hunger, the drive, and the belief that you can reach a higher level, then my mission is to give you the structure, knowledge, and guidance that I never had at your age.

Matchfit Football exists to bridge the gap between where you are now and where you are capable of being. Whether your goal is to earn a pro contract, represent your country, or simply unlock the potential you know you have, everything you need to get there is right here. The journey starts the moment you decide to take it.

You can take the next step by getting a copy of my book "The Football Fitness Bible", and learning more about my online training programme "Elite Football Athlete".

Thank you for reading.

James