If there’s but one thing we, footballers, share in common with skaters, it has to be the public nuisance status. Whenever either of us steps on the scene with a pair of cleats or a set of wheels under our feet, a rent-a-cop is already making tracks to shoo us away. The establishment’s beef with skating is understandable. Anyone, who has ever watched outtakes from a skate tape, knows the lengths these daredevils on dollies go to in pursuit of rock star status. It’s more an insurance liability than it is a health concern. In the case of footballers however, it’s all about the grass.

Most of Los Angeles is pretty much prime real estate, so it should really come as no surprise that green open spaces come at such a premium. There are very few public parks you and your mates can link up for a pickup game of footy without being threatened with citations or even a tussle with the Johnnies. No, the ratty remnants of crab grass, left over from the other football’s season, were far too precious to waste on a “commie sport like soccer”. If you wanted to play the beautiful game without the inside track of being a professional player or owning your own pitch, you had to know the right spots.

Having lived in Los Angeles for going on 22 years now, I managed to stumble into more than a few pickup games. Mondays and Fridays, I would lace up the flats to play 11s on the outfield of a muddied baseball diamond, nestled deep in the heart of West Hollywood. Tuesdays was invite-only at a secret location. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I can tell you this, the feeling of playing ‘winner stays on’ in the confines of a cage made me feel like a gladiator. At one point, there was even a game just a few steps removed from the sandlot that is Santa Monica beach. There we were, surrounded by bicycling bikini babes and fanny packed tourists, going for glory. I never realized how good I had it then.

Years later, the synthetic stuff would replace old-fashioned grass throughout most, if not all, of Los Angeles. The chokehold on playing fields only tightened. From then on, if I wanted to run a game of footy, I’d have no choice but to join a pay-to-play league. Where’s the fun in that? 8am sharp, Saturday morning, on such and such turf field, playing with a bunch of yuppies in a game reffed by some rummy out for beer money. Forget about it. I liken it to Old Vegas transitioning into the Disneyland that it is today.

Street football is Fight Club and even though most of the games have been snuffed, we, yardies, still get it in from time to time. To preserve the sanctity of those games, I am pleading the fifth; however, with the blessing of World Football Daily, I will share with you the Diary of a Street Footballer. Over the course of the next few weeks, I’ll spill the beans on Los Angeles’s best kept secret – the street football scene studded with pros, regular Joes, off-duty cops, bombshells and the occasional celebrity. It was a secret then, but it’d be a shame to not share it now. Stay tuned.