Final Whistle, Page 4

  "Right," she said authoritatively, "we are going to put you to sleep now. I want you to count slowly to ten for me." She had kind eyes. I felt the anaesthetic rising up my arm.

  "One."

  A warm feeling spread across to my shoulders.

  "Two."

  There was a catch in my throat and I tasted the sterile anaesthetic in my mouth.

  "Three."

  I began to feel giddy, what comes after three? Then there was blackness.

  CHAPTER 4

  I came around slowly. My mouth was parched and dry. There was a taste of stale anaesthetic in my throat. Opening my eyes I became aware of the fluorescently lit room that served as my private hospital room. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a figure hunched over some reading material. I blinked to focus so that I could see who it was. I saw Aaron Morgenson, United’s goalkeeper and my friend. He noticed that I was stirring and laid down the women’s magazine he had been reading. Aaron came and stood over me, he spoke gently.

  “Alex, how do you feel?” Up to that point I hadn’t realised that the pain in my leg had abated to a slight ache. I looked down and sticking out from beneath the bedclothes was a plaster cast, with my dusty white toes protruding from the end of it. My response was croaked rather than spoken.

  “I guess I feel better than I did,” I said, not really knowing whether the pain would return when the anaesthetic wore off completely. I remembered how it all happened and asked belatedly, “Did we win the game?”

  “Of course, it was four to nil.” His cool blue eyes drilled into me. “You had me worried for a while back there.” There was genuine concern in his voice. I suddenly realised that he should have been celebrating victory with the traditional post match pasta and said as much. He explained that it was nearly eight o’ clock in the evening and that he had finished his meal some time before. I calculated that I had been asleep for over four hours, yet it only seemed like minutes.

  “You’ll miss the team bus,” I said, concerned.

  “It’s long gone, Alex. I told them I was staying. The boss was not happy one piece.” I smiled at his naive use of the language.

  “It looks like I’ll be out for a few weeks with this lot.” He looked down at his shoes. “I am going to miss the final, aren’t I? That’s it, isn’t it?” He looked at me and frowned. I was almost shouting now.

  “Well, come on then, tell me. Am I going to miss the final or not? You must have heard something.”

  “Your doctor will be here soon. He can tell you better than me.” I knew that Aaron was avoiding discussion on the unpleasant issue of my injury and was not surprised. For a professional soccer player even just visiting an injured colleague sends shivers down your spine. I guess that it reminds us of how fragile our own playing career might be. I reached across and took a drink of water from a glass that had been placed strategically within my reach. It was warm and tasted of hospital. Even so I could speak a little more easily after a generous mouthful.

  “Aaron, if there is some bad news I want you to tell me, not the doctor. Now, is it serious?” The Icelander gripped my right hand and squeezed it. There was moisture in his eyes. I slumped back onto the pillows. “It’s that bad, is it?” The question was rhetorical. I knew the answer.

  The door opened and the surgeon came into the room carrying a clipboard. He was wearing golfing trousers and a polo shirt with a small green crocodile logo stitched over the left breast.

  “Mr Carter.” His voice was loud and bright. Perhaps even optimistic. “You have had a nasty little injury. We had to operate to reset the leg and do a little bit of work on the knee. Unfortunately,” he paused while he consulted the back pages of the report on his clipboard. “the real work has yet to be done on the knee and that cannot realistically be attempted until the leg is much stronger.”

  “How bad is it?” I asked, my heart racing in case the answer was negative. It was.

  “You will recover fully, in time.” He clipped his pen onto his notes and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at me earnestly. “There is no quick solution here Mr Carter. I only wish there was."

  “Are we talking weeks or months here?” I needed to know.

  “Do you remember when Paul Gascoigne was injured in the FA cup for Spurs some time ago?” I nodded, dreading his diagnosis. “Well, you have a similar injury. You won’t be kicking a ball again this year and it may be over a year before you can think of playing competitively.” My face must have drained of colour because he asked me if I was feeling up to talking. I said I was.

  “You will make a full recovery, I’ll make sure of that. Be patient. Don’t rush and you’ll be fine. In the meantime take some time to reflect. Sit back, make some plans, read, write, pass on some of your knowledge to others. There’s more to football than running around on the pitch.” I looked at Aaron and the look in his eyes confirmed that for us the only part of the game worth a light was the playing of it.

  ************

  The seconds turned to minutes and the minutes to hours. The room was hot and airless, I felt claustrophobic and the feeling was exaggerated due to my immobility. The long hours passed slowly and I had plenty of time to think, too much time to think. A year or more before I could play again, if ever. I would be over thirty, nearly thirty one. United would have to replace me, perhaps with an overseas player, certainly a younger one. Would I ever regain my place? Would I ever regain my form? I am not by nature a pessimist but those dismal hours were at least as dark as the ones I suffered after losing Vicki.

  My playing career was over, everyone must know it, but no-one else would be heartless enough to voice it. The answer suddenly became depressingly clear. I would have to announce my retirement due to the injury. After all, what was the alternative? Eighteen months of hollow encouragement followed by months of getting match fit in the reserves and then a season on the substitutes bench. I might get a game or two on loan or I could drop a division I suppose, but why bother? I should just quit at the top. I made and unmade the dreadful decision a thousand times that night.

  The morning came and lingered longer than the clock suggested. I swallowed painkillers and tried to read the newspapers. Needless to say I was front and back page news, front page because of the injury and back page because of my contribution to the quarter final victory. We were now favourites to lift the cup. I tried not to think about missing that rare and exhilarating experience. Shaking hands with the Queen, lifting the cup high above your head, running around the ground deliriously happy and grinning stupidly. I stared out of the window and hoped that the ambulance would be here soon to whisk me away up the M6 and home.

  The phone rang. It was a tearful Tanya. We spoke for fully forty minutes, before I coaxed her into putting the phone down. I was brave for her sake, I told her everything was fine and I would soon be back to normal. She pretended to be convinced and just before we said goodbye she said:

  “I love you Daddy.”

  I choked at that point. It was years since she had called me Daddy. When we disconnected I cried. I cried for her, for me and for all that we both had lost.

  ************

  Mr Webster, my consultant, wished me well as I struggled into the private ambulance, shuffling about trying not to put weight on my encased broken leg. He said that he would have to operate on the knee again in a few weeks and that he would contact a hospital closer to my home. As he so candidly pointed out, it was easier for him to travel than for me.

  The private ambulance was new and surprisingly comfortable. My leg ached but the jovial ambulanceman talked and joked the whole journey. I wasn’t particularly interested in his jollity but he persisted until he made me laugh. The ambulance eventually pulled up outside my house. My Porsche was back in the driveway, presumably Aaron had brought it back from the United car park where I had left it only yesterday to take the team bus. It seemed like days ago.

  At the sight of the ambulance Tanya came rushing out of the front door leaving my Icelandic friend
and Frances, the boss’s wife, in her wake. She all but put me back in hospital with a bone crushing hug that would have disabled a more fragile creature. I put my arms around her and buried my face in her long flowing blonde hair. Her hair smelled clean and fresh. It smelled of Vicki. She pulled back a little and frowned with concern, her brow furrowed. I smiled and kissed her gently on the forehead and her face relaxed into a wide grin.

  “I am going to take good care of you,” she spluttered. “Don’t worry, everything will be all right.” My fifteen year old daughter taking charge, reassuring me. I was moved and began to think that perhaps the world had not come to an end after all.

  With a little help and assistance I limped into the house and sat down on a hard dining room chair. I didn’t think that I would be able to get up from the low slung sofa. The jovial ambulance man spoke to me as he folded the blanket that had covered my shoulders on the short journey into the house.

  “Mr Carter, you can probably tell from the accent that I am not a United supporter, but what Dean did yesterday was a disgrace. He should have been sent off. I know that the other lads agree, so from the Wanderers fans at the depot, get well soon.”

  He produced a small get well soon card that was filled with names and good honest sentiment from the terraces. I thanked him and he went on his way. I looked down at the card and my eyes fell upon a comment by someone who signed himself as Ken. It read:

  “I hope it turns out all right for you, if not sue the bastard, he deserves it!”

  ************

  Frances and Tanya settled me down and went off into the kitchen to prepare some wholesome food. They left Aaron with strict instructions to keep an eye on me and not to discuss work. As soon as they were out of earshot I spoke angrily but quietly to my friend.

  “I don’t believe this Aaron,” I said. “I am out of the game for, who knows how long, and the man who did it didn’t even get sent off. What was the referee playing at?”

  “I don’t know,” was his response. “He didn’t even book the man. We couldn’t believe it either. The boss has said that he will complain in his report to the FA.” I slumped back in the chair and raised my eyes to the heavens but could only see as far as the ceiling. It held no answers. If the heavens knew, then I hoped they would share the answer with me one day. Not even a yellow card!

  “What about the Referee’s assistant?” I asked, expecting him to know what I meant by the question.

  “He was on the other side of the pitch, Alex. The referee didn’t consult him.”

  I was as angry as I had ever felt. The ball had been long gone when this neolith had come charging in with an illegal over the ball two footed challenge and yet he escaped without being shown a card of either colour. At that moment, the idea of suing Dean Butler in the courts was very appealing, very appealing indeed.

  “Aaron, tell the boss that I would like a meeting as soon as possible with the club lawyers.” I was intent on stopping Dean Butler from ending any more careers.

  CHAPTER 5

  My muscles were aching with the strain of carrying around several pounds of plaster of Paris on my left leg. The tendons in the small of my back twinged as the lift came to a halt at the second floor. Lennie, the club’s full time commissionaire, held open the doors as I struggled with the still unfamiliar crutches. Being careful not to place any weight on my damaged leg I swung down the corridor to the boardroom inexpertly. I found that it was difficult to get an easy rhythm going, even when I repeated in my mind the physiotherapist’s dictum, step with the leg - swing with the sticks.

  The door to the boardroom was ajar and I could see the club solicitor scribbling away on a blue covered legal pad that looked to all intents and purposes like an oversized school exercise book. As I made my clumsy entrance he stood up and walked towards me, offering his arm to assist me as I lowered myself into the sumptuous leather chair at the head of the walnut boardroom table.

  Even as team captain I made only infrequent visits to the boardroom, but every time I did I was filled with awe. There was a quiet, almost reverent atmosphere about the room. As I looked at the walls there were photographs, paintings and framed team shirts that harked back as far as the last century. Pride of place was given to an 1885 photograph of the gentlemen’s team that eventually gave up its cumbersome name to become the United that was now recognised, and even revered, around the world. Sitting in the middle of his blurry moustache laden teammates was a handsome looking clean shaven man with dark and piercing eyes. His name was Andrew Carter, the club captain. Whilst he was no relation, I always felt an affinity with him and I had developed a quiet respect for his historic decision to turn professional at a time when soccer was only just beginning to burgeon into the game we know today.

  Simon Moreton had been the club lawyer for as long as I had been at the club. He was a friend to most of the players, having arranged houses, mortgages, loans and even counselling, when needed. Simon was a difficult man to age. I guessed he was an old looking forty. His manner was proper and always gentlemanly. He reminded me of the old headmaster I had at school. As he spoke he brushed imaginary fluff from his immaculate, but dated, suit.

  “Well Alex, it seems that you want to make Dean Butler pay for his latest act of footballing barbarism.” He looked at me, his gaze cool and steady.

  “I certainly do, Mr Moreton.” Somehow calling him by his Christian name seemed disrespectful.

  “Please, call me Simon,” he responded, sensing my dilemma. “You realise of course that this type of action will demand a long and laborious court case, without any great certainty as to success?”

  I gathered from his raised eyebrows that he intended it as a question.

  “Yes, I understand. I also imagine that it will be expensive?” I replied with a question of my own. Simon looked down at a green cardboard file which lay open on the table and he studied its contents.

  “To be perfectly frank with you, Alex, money isn’t the problem. You see, you are covered by legal protection insurance and they will foot the legal bills, my own and counsel’s.” He paused and closed the folder before continuing.

  “The real problem is the burden of proof.” He saw that I didn’t understand and so explained. “You see it is for us to prove, on the balance of probabilities, that the tackle that caused the injury was a reckless or negligent tackle. In essence, we must demonstrate that it was an illegal tackle in terms of the FIFA rules.”

  “But that animal broke my leg and ripped my knee ligaments apart,” I countered.

  “That may be so, but the referee obviously didn’t feel that the tackle was any worse than could be expected in a normal competitive match. He says so in the report he made to the FA.”

  “How can he say that?” I bridled at the suggestion that my career had been jeopardised by a legitimate tackle. The lawyer simply shrugged his shoulders and I seethed.

  “It is up to us to show that Dean Butler failed to exercise the required standard of duty and care. Or, in other words we must demonstrate that he made a tackle no reasonable footballer of his standing would have made. There is no escaping the reality, we will have our work cut out. If we proceed.” Simon fell silent.

  “So you’re saying that we should forget it, then?” I was angry and I didn’t attempt to conceal the fact.

  “The decision is yours, Alex.” he responded calmly.

  “What would you do in my position?” I asked more soberly.

  “Are you asking me as your solicitor or as a friend?”

  “As a friend, I suppose.” I was a little puzzled by the question.

  “In that case, I would screw the filthy little bastard to the floor.” There was venom behind the lawyerly smile.

  “Then let’s do it,” I said, and we parted on a handshake.

  I was going to court and, more importantly, so was Dean Butler.

  ************

  Aaron Morgensen was leaning against the reception desk talking to two giggling girls when I stepped out
of the lift. As I crossed the shiny marbled floor he turned towards me and smiled. Aaron raised his great frame from the desk and excused himself before walking to join me as I swung and shuffled towards the door.

  “I will give you a lift home,” he said.

  “No need, Big man,” I replied. “The girls can get me a taxi. But thanks anyway.”

  “We are not debating this, Alex, it was a statement. I will give you a lift home.”

  “Well, as you are so keen…” I was secretly grateful as I would be much more comfortable stretched out in Aaron’s Range Rover.

  “I need to talk to you.” The Icelander’s expression was earnest.

  I eased my way into the leather seat and relaxed as Aaron fastened me in. Within a few minutes we were travelling along the Chester Road and heading towards the suburbs and home. For a man who felt an urgent need to talk, my companion was remarkably subdued. I decided to leave him to his silence and allow him to speak in his own good time.

  We were outside my house before he was able to spit out the words, “Alex, I have been paid to throw a match.” I was shocked and unbelieving, but mostly I was disappointed. Nevertheless, it had taken some courage for him to confess and so I tried to stay unemotional and calm. I put my hand on his quaking shoulder and asked him to come inside.

  The hiss of the beer cans depressurising as I pulled the rings broke the morbid silence. Aaron sat looking straight at the wall. He was as sad as I had ever seen him. I knew that I had to speak first.

  “Aaron, we have been friends for a long time.” I paused, looking for the words that I needed. “Whatever you have done I know you will have done it for a good reason.” He looked at me and I saw tears welling in his ice blue eyes.