Hackney marshes

Watching Closely

For as long as I can remember, observation has been one of my quiet strengths.

As the youngest child in my family, with a brother fifteen years older than me, I often existed slightly outside the main flow of things. He was already grown when I was still figuring myself out. That age gap meant two things: I was looked after, but I also had to make my own fun. I learnt early how to entertain myself, how to insert myself into spaces, how to watch before acting.

During school holidays, it wasn’t unusual for me to wander down to the nearest park and join a game of football with strangers. No introductions, no expectations. Just turning up, reading the rhythm of the game, finding a way to fit in. You learn quickly in those settings. Who you can trust with the ball. Who you should avoid. Where the space opens up if you wait long enough.

One summer’s day on Hackney Marshes, I noticed something different.

It was a warm, bright afternoon, the kind that draws everyone outside. There were games everywhere—shouts, laughter, the thud of boots on grass. But just beyond the noise, off to one side, was a man training on his own. He must have been in his early twenties. No kit bag. No teammates. Just a ball and a purpose.

He was sweating heavily. His touches were tight, controlled, deliberate. He wasn’t showing off. He wasn’t rushing. He was repeating movements over and over, refining them. You could tell immediately that this wasn’t casual. This was someone on a mission.

I remember watching him between passages of play, drawn not just to his skill but to his solitude. While everyone else was playing, he was working. While the rest of us relied on talent and instinct, he was building something methodically.

That day, something clicked.