THERE comes a time when you should finally let a dream die.

Whether that dream is to be a pop star, to drive a sports car, to be a world leader, many people hang on to their dreams for as long as they possibly can.

It’s not wrong to dream, but when chasing it starts to make you look like a bit of an idiot, it is a good time to stop.

This week, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I will not now or ever be a professional footballer. To even type these words is difficult, but the time has come.

My realisation that a football club is unlikely to call me into its squad any time soon came last week, in a game that – for some – would be the stuff of dreams in itself.

I was part of a North-East Press XI that took on a Newcastle United team, at their training ground last Friday.

These types of game, in my field of work, come around quite a lot. And, since I’m one of only a few goalkeeping journalists in the North-East, I’m usually called up for action. Not out of choice, but necessity. I’m guaranteed to answer the call.

In most games I’ve played, I have been a complete and utter shambles. I’ve played at St James’ Park and the Riverside Stadium, and disgraced both hallowed pitches with a string of unforced mistakes and errors of judgement.

Last year, I took part in a game at Blackwell Meadows which, from next season onwards, will be home to Darlington FC. For once, that game went well. I didn’t make any massive clangers and left the pitch with my head held high.

But last week’s game was something completely different. The game came about as Newcastle manager John Carver offered a game against one of the local journalists on the Magpies’ beat.

He agreed to put a team together to play against a Carver XI, which would feature backroom staff such as Andy Woodman and Steve Stone – who played for England – as well as former Everton centre-half Dave Watson.

For our part, we boasted former Sunderland defender Gary Bennett alongside Newcastle heroes John Beresford and John Anderson. A fair match? Not likely.

We were 2-0 down at half-time, the opposition not even breaking into a sweat. I’d already had a mix-up with my defenders and had been lobbed twice by the time half-time drinks were served.

The second half was worse. Twice as worse, technically, as we shipped four further goals to make it 6-0. During that half I managed to make an exceptional save with my left ear, before trundling back to my line after the resultant corner had been taken and conceding a comedy goal; then I decided to nick the ball off the toe of Anderson – who made hundreds of appearances for Newcastle as well as being capped 16 times for the Republic of Ireland – before getting into a tangle allowing the club doctor to slot past me.

If looks could kill, Anderson’s glance in my direction would have finished me. I’d already been howled at by Beresford for not passing to him.

Embarrassed, the game continued until the referee mercifully brought an end to the proceedings. As the post-match handshakes were dispensed, my own teammates’ disdain at my performance was clear to see.

Both Anderson and Bennett, guests on BBC Newcastle’s Total Sport show, blamed me for the defeat live on air.

It was a glimpse into life as a professional, and I didn’t like it one bit.

I’m hanging up my gloves – the dream is over.