I possessed nothing in the way of the magic which could have sparked a shot at maybe the senior seconds - all I embraced was simply being "part of the team".
Not an iron-clad link for the other 14 souls out there to call upon when the heat went on, but just one of the lads ... one of the team.
As I had been at school.
Going back to the classroom without skinned knees was like turning up for an arithmetic test without a large number of fractions and times table answers Biro-ed upon one's upper leg and obscured by one's shorts.
The grazes of grass-field battle were badges of sporting honour.
The odd wound or two.
So when I bust the rib that afternoon I took it stoically ... I quit.
Went to play football instead as it was less a contact thing, although my father who was deeply entrenched in his custodial role with the Hawke's Bay Rugby Union, was not terribly impressed.
"The best thing that ever happened to that silly game was when a chap picked the bloody thing up and ran with it ... he started a real game," dad declared.
So armed with the ability to be average, I played a few seasons.
Off and on, and at the age of 41 played my last local league game for Cri-Scindians ... and we were dealt to 5-1 by Havelock North.
However (here we go), I feel I should point out that I have scored at Bluewater Stadium and it was an international match.
We "veteran" chaps of Rovers flavour were playing the Tomakomai Golden Oldies and I managed to hook one past their keeper ... despite the fact I had actually been trying to pass it to one of my better-placed colleagues.
I dined on that goal all evening until the saki ran out and I later ended up lost in the nearby Park Island Cemetery (I'm not kidding).
I am among those of sporting humankind destined to be an informed, skilled, devoted and astute ... spectator.
I am good at it and have only once been sent off the living room field, for when things go wrong for the home side one has to remain vocally civil when there are children within earshot.
Our kids all took to the fields of sport as many kids do, and we'd go along and endure the winter mornings to cheer them on in their endeavours and as I wanted them to achieve the best they could I drew the line at attempting any form of coaching.
I earned my Diploma of ASS (Advanced Sport Spectating) so left it at that.
But some people inexplicably fail at the sport of spectating, which is difficult to fathom but not surprising in some circumstances.
I read the story of a 10-year-old lad up South Auckland way who has fulfilled a long-held desire in his life and that is to play rugby league.
Except that in his first outing several parents of other players in the under-10s side mocked him ... laughed at him and made remarks about how chubby he was and how he was "slowing the team down".
He was, effectively, a target of mindless mirth and all he was trying to do was be part of a team.
Be a player, the best he could even if that was not up to other people's misguided standards.
Poor kid got laughed at but when news got out about it the positive comments began to pour in, including one from All Black Liam Messam who told people we have to be there to support our kids "not tear them down".
So what did the youngster say about it all?
"I just want to carry on," he said, which to me makes him the best player in that team.
Mums, dads, caregivers, brothers, sisters, whoever ... the sideline is for spectating and supporting those within it because unlike some of you they are doing the very best they can.
- Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.
