In ancient Ireland, today would have been the start of the festival of Imbolc, later appropriated as St Brigid's Day. Imbolc, explains Frank McNally, comes from the Irish for "in the belly", because this was the time when ewes were about to lamb and, more poetically, when the ground was being awakened and seeds placed into the belly of mother earth.
Marked by fire and purification rituals, Imbolc traditionally ran until sunset on February 2nd (sometimes called Groundhog Day).
In modern England, meanwhile, February 1st has been designated Sir Stanley Matthews Day, marking the famous footballer's birthday in 1915. Like St Brigid, who inherited the traditions of a similarly named goddess, Matthews is a semi-legendary figure, worshipped by Christians and pagans alike. Like her too, he combined magical powers - the trademark swerve that left full-backs stuck to ground, for example - with great virtue: he was never booked in 700 league games.
But there is another sense in which it is apt that Matthews should be honoured on the festival of Imbolc: because unofficially at least, he is the patron saint of middle-aged sportsmen. He only retired from playing at the top level after his 50th birthday, and later insisted he had quit too soon. The fire in his belly burned brightly even at the end of his career, to the extent that he never conquered the nervousness he felt before a game. "My pre-match routine was a shower, a massage, and then I would be physically sick," he once recalled.
It's not because of fire in the belly that Matthews is important to ageing sportsmen, however. It is because of the belly itself. As we continue to suffer the consequences of Christmas, the festival of Imbolc reminds us of the need for purification rituals, central to which is the gut-bursting weekly kick-around that some us dignify with the name "football". And as we check our bellies in the mirror afterwards (while sucking in hard), this is also a time for counting the years we have left until we reach the age when even Stanley Matthews gave up.
The great winger assumed increased significance for me at what is a difficult juncture in many men's lives: the moment we first realise that not one of the footballers still playing at Premiership level in a major European league is now older than us. I don't remember a particular instant when this awful truth struck me. It just crept up.
Tony Cascarino had been an important figure for years, combining the qualities of being older than me with a talent that could euphemistically be called "limited", and yet playing at a high level. When he retired, I was bereft, until the grainy black-and-white image of Stanley Matthews came into view, booting the ball past a defender and haring after it in baggy shorts. Reassured, I sold my 40th birthday a dummy and hurdled its despairing lunge, as the promise of another decade of athletic viability opened up.
Encouragingly, Matthews had limited talents too. His no-bookings record must be set against a self-confessed failure ever to win a tackle. He avoided heading the ball like a Free Presbyterian avoids drink. His scoring record was unexceptional. These are all qualities that many non-professional footballers can readily identify with. But he did have one outstanding skill - that's one more than most of us - and no matter how often they tried, opposing full-backs were helpless to deal with it.
Ireland's Con Martin once explained: "You knew what he was going to do. He would take the ball up to you, feint [inside], and in a flash he was gone on the outside. Every time you faced him in that situation, you thought you had him. But his timing and acceleration over 10 yards were phenomenal." The highlight of his epic career is generally agreed to have been the 1953 FA Cup Final - its last 22 minutes, to be exact, when his dribbling skills turned a 3-1 deficit into victory for Blackpool. But there were many highlights, including the romantic return to his home club Stoke in 1961, when his presence quadrupled attendances and propelled the team back into the top division. His farewell match in 1965 - against a European legends outfit that included Yashin, Di Stefano, and Puskas - filled the same ground.
We who have never scaled even the foothills of European football's Alps are used to playing before audiences of nobody. This is a mercy on the countless nights when we distinguish ourselves only with incompetence. But our occasional career highlights - the volleyed goal, the defence-splitting pass - also go unnoticed. At such times, we go home and pathetically try to insinuate the subject into conversations with our wives and children, by means of such subtle gambits as: "Ask me how the football went."
It is comforting to know, therefore, that there was an absence in Matthews's games too. His father had been celebrated in his own right as a featherweight boxer - "the fighting barber of Hanley". Maybe he couldn't cope with being outshone, or maybe he was just the archetypal quiet man. Either way, he never discussed football with his son. "It was only years afterwards I discovered that he closed the shop on Saturday afternoons when Stoke were playing and sneaked off to stand in the crowd," Matthews said late in life.
For all these reasons, the "wizard of the dribble" would be an inspiring figure to me even if we didn't share a birthday. But as it happens, we do. He would have been 92 today and, by an amazing coincidence, that's the age I always feel after my weekly football match. This is the first day of spring, however, and optimism is peering from its burrow again like a groundhog. Middle-aged athletes everywhere are sucking in their bellies.
Thanks to Stanley Matthews, we know that our best years are still before us.