Aloha Stadium, Honolulu

Spying a fifty-yard slope behind an open gate leading down underneath the North stand, the lush green of the field seemed to be calling my name. At the foot of the slope, the brightness created by the daylight at the end of the tunnel was like the white light described by those who have encountered a near-death experience. It shone as bright as the North Star at night, showing me the way like a beacon, as if there was only one direction in which I should be heading. Silently, I praised whoever had foolishly left the gate open. Knowing I would be trespassing, I satisfied my conscience that my love of football was my automatic entry pass. Besides, I was prepared to use my best Oxford English in the hope of pleading ignorance if confronted by anyone in a uniform.

As I made my way down the concrete slope, my nerves began to accelerate my breathing like a trigger. Not because I knew I was doing something I shouldn’t, however, but because this was a place I knew would feel as much like home as anywhere I had been in my 34 years.

I have always thought there is something special about stadia. What they’ve seen. What they’ve heard. The history created there. The secrets they contain. The careers made there. The careers broken. Although allowing yourself to feel too much affection for them is naïve – the very next game is a stark reminder that your relationship is not exclusive. Admittedly, I would probably feel as at home at a high school field with a single bleacher stand that harboured little song and dance. But this was the motherland of the ProBowl; the best athletes of the last thirty years produced by the NFL have graced this turf.

Moving closer and closer to the field with every tentative step, my senses heightened and my imagination allowed for deafening crowd noise. As I exited the tunnel, I could almost make out distinctive voices from the top-tier seats. The contrasting blue sky silhouetted but accentuated the right angles of the roofs of the stands. I raised a hand to the sun, protecting my eyes from its blinding rays. I stepped gingerly on to the hallowed turf of the endzone as if it was going to break, and I likened it to some sort of magic kingdom. I was home. I walked further into the red zone completely alone as if I had shed my coverage, unconscious of my steps as I gained the true sense of my surroundings. I began to feel big and powerful and, raising my hands high from my sides to expose my wingspan, I let my mind wander. I started to believe I could catch balls on Darrelle Revis, such was the power of the place. It was cathartic. Like pastoral therapy. It was as if reality had somehow left me to meditate in private. I was invincible, unstoppable.

As lost in the moment as I was standing on the lush green carpet, I couldn’t help but acknowledge how much I will always miss playing football. Only now am I starting to understand the magnitude of my own sentiment that once football is in your blood, there is no turning back. And even if I was told, when we embarked on the journey together, that it would be a passionate but relatively short relationship, I still would have assented. We have a bond. And we will grow old together.

I left Aloha Stadium, not keen on the thoughts my mind had elicited. But as I was leaving with my faith in football still as strong as ever, I agreed that if I was religious I would pray there.

Home to the University of Hawaii Warriors, a multitude of other events and, most notably, the annual Pro Bowl of the NFL, the ageing beauty of Aloha Stadium has done some miles. Maturing gracefully but in need of renovation, it was the reason why the showcase game the previous February had been played in Miami. Aloha Stadium has enjoyed a 30-year run from 1980 to 2009 as hosts of the Pro Bowl but, sadly, a new NFL policy now allows for voting to decide the following year’s venue. Back in 1975 when it opened the arena was considered state-of-the-art owing to its stands, which are moveable by air cushions into different configurations to allow for the hosting of various sports and concerts. Apparently, sitting in the highest seats in the stadium is akin to being at the height of a ten-story building. But by today’s standards, its 50,000 capacity pales in comparison to that of North Korea’s May Day Stadium, for example, which holds a staggering 150,000 spectators. Even the University of Texas Longhorns’ Darrell K. Royal – Texas Memorial Stadium in Austin, Texas holds just over 100,000 spectators.