THE accident and emergency units are braced. The belligerent ballers are straining at their leashes. Five-a-side football is coming back.

As Russell Crowe said as he walked into a Sydney gym for his weekly match: “At my signal, unleash hell.”

The Scottish Government has not yet agreed the precise date for the players to return, presumably following the example set by the Allies in not publicly specifying the timing of the D-Day landings. Curiously, in mayhem and bloodshed, fives hold a striking resemblance to the first reel of Saving Private Ryan. There is an inevitable body count in fives.

Much rubbish has been written about sport, a significant amount of it by me. But there is some truth in the theory that it can provide a window into the human soul. This was never more evident than when considering the personality, the character and the hidden shallows of one’s opponents in five-a-side matches.

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Fives is almost exclusively an amateur sport. There is the occasional pro tournament but these are a trivial adjunct to the 11-a-side game. Fives is for the guys and gals in a variety of strips with a range of skills and distinct differences in opinions as to the fitness levels required.

My experience is with the male of the fives species, for obvious reasons. It is more than 25 years since I have played fives but I still wince at the memory. Recent and brief experience as a spectator showed me little had changed.

Yes, more players wear replica shorts now. In my day, you were more likely to see a replica semmit, in that it precisely resembled your da’s vest. Footwear is generally more sophisticated, too. The fives of the 1980s were the sole preserve of the gutty or the ten-bob slider as these unsponsored trainers were known.

The body shape of the players is familiar to those who played in a bygone age. There are basically two types: the fit and the fat. Intriguingly, the better players usually fall into the latter category.

The fit career around with a scant observance of any tactical discipline and only a fleeting relevance to where the ball is. The fat play judiciously and efficiently, only deigning to run for three paces if it is deemed absolutely necessary, as in to convert a definite scoring chance or the hall being on fire. The latter occurrence would be carefully gauged, of course, before any intemperate and undignified jogging.

The central point about fives, of course, is the violence. It is more refined now but it still exists. In my day, it was as physical as wolverines playing rugby. There is a line of thought that posits that Dana White must have viewed these collisions and come up with the observation: “Let’s take away the ball, make it one a side and call it the Ultimate Fighting Championship.’’

Perhaps, but what is certain is that Conor McGregor would never have survived the fives at the 1980s Cowane Centre in Stirling or the various venues where the Glasgow Herald employees played. The latter moved around sports venues in the manner of the Mongol hordes tearing across various plains.

Whether in Stirling or in some benighted hall in Bishopbriggs, there was always one constant. Aggression was a prerequisite for every player. But there was always one. This is in italics because newspapers are not able to convey menace by use of the theme music to The Omen and the sound of bone breaking bone.

He was Clive or Terence. He worked in accounts. He wore the same five shirts in rotation every week. Prominently displayed on his desk was a picture of two beautiful children, alongside a mug denoting the World’s Best Dad. His array of pens and pencils included a Parker, never used, that was given to him by his wife when he became a team leader.

His stapler had his name on it. He had some sticky backed paper to which he applied his name and then placed on his half-pint of milk before depositing same in the fridge.

On a Friday, the classic fives day, he would bring his bag and leave it by his desk. Al Capone’s hitmen liked to keep their machine guns close at hand, too.

Inside the bag, the kit was impeccable. Outside the bag, Clive was diabolical. It was worse for the unwary who changed alongside this affable chap who spoke quietly of a forthcoming fun weekend with the family before making Friday afternoons a homage to the final scene of Reservoir Dogs.

An unsuspecting clerk from the personnel department would be dwelling on the ball before realising, only seconds later, that he was on an unforgiving gym floor with his leg at an unusual angle. Some time later the haunting sounds of a siren would be heard on the Glasgow air. Clive would express bemusement at the effect of his challenge.

This could and would become a theme. It was not always Clive, of course. There were more than enough psychopaths to go around. There still are. I walked away because I was determined not to be carried away on a stretcher.

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I survived but in old newspaper reunions, there always comes the forced laughter when a victim recalls how he broke his tibia or snapped his Achilles’ tendon on the killing, sorry, playing fields of fives.

The true horror lies beneath this bonhomie. It is this: Scottish fives makes the Hunger Games look like a game of pre-school tag. It is not for you. It is only for Clive and his fellow hitmen. We veterans know this. So, shortly, will accident and emergency departments around the country.

Our columns are platforms for writers to express their opinions.They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald