As we emerged from the tunnel into the bright spring sunshine the crowd yelled and clapped in a cacophony of sound, as their favoured icons ran onto the pitch. Cheerleaders shook their brightly coloured pom poms with wild abandon and undersized mascots in oversized football strips came close to being trodden underfoot by nervous football players. I was the visiting captain and I found myself being described in the matchday programme as;
“A footballer in his prime.”
I recalled being alternatively described in a recent women’s lifestyle magazine as;
“..a tall, well built striker who has shunned the trend for shaved heads and so sports a shock of dark unruly hair. Only marginally handsome his face has remained undamaged, despite years of elbows and heads crashing into it. His renowned smile makes his face particularly appealing to his female followers.”
The description in the programme was a euphemism, they really meant that I was getting towards the end of my career, whereas the second description appeared to me to be only partially complimentary. The description I most wanted to see in the Sunday papers was:
“Quarter final winning captain, Alex Carter…”
I was shaken from my daydreams by the referee testing his shrill whistle. Standing in the centre of the pitch the noise from the crowd was deafening. Forty thousand voices meshed in a confused chorus of anthem chanting. I stood on the springy turf of the opposition’s old ground, now well worn by a season’s worth of home games. Turning three hundred and sixty degrees I applauded the fans, without any real regard for their allegiance. They were all football fans after all, and they paid my wages.
The banks of red and gold erupted from plastic bucket seats to stand and inspire their teams. As I looked into the main stand, recently renamed after the death of one of soccer’s great legends, the faces blurred before my eyes and the crowd became a kaleidoscope of diversely moving colour. At ground level there were fathers, mothers and grandparents with children of all ages. Above them were the stalwart season ticket holders and the directors, with the executive boxes elevated even further above them and concealed behind a screen of reflective glass. I looked at the crowd trying to identify Tanya who was sitting with the players wives but had to give up. There was a deafening roar of anticipation from the crowd. If the quarter finals evoked this kind of passion, what kind of energy could we expect if we were to run out onto the hallowed turf of the new Wembley? Convinced that we would make the final this time I was determined to play my part in qualifying for the honour of leading my team into the world’s premier stadium.
Incomprehensible announcements were made over the tannoy system as I felt the football slip from my grip. It was punched from my hands by a tall blond Dane. The grinning goalkeeper caught the ball on his instep and proceeded to juggle it onto his knee, chest and head before allowing it to settle on his hunched shoulders. The crowd cheered and the ‘Great Dane’ flicked the ball into the air before volleying it thirty yards towards his goal. The young girl mascot tugged at my hand and led me to the eighteen yard box where she passed the ball to me. We continued passing the ball back and forth as the tension mounted. I wondered if the pre match butterflies ever disappeared. I had felt them before every important game of my career. They told me I was alive, but mostly they told me I was lucky.
Meandering thoughts of lifting the cup dissolved as the piercing tone of the referee’s whistle called the team captains to the centre spot. I couldn’t help grinning as the gap-toothed eight year old took my hand again. The officials were decked out in green and the referee was wearing the now compulsory ear piece with microphone taped to his cheek. The Wanderer’s Tony Scott shook my hand as the referee tossed a fifty pence piece into the air.
“Heads,” Tony called.
“Heads it is,” confirmed the Londoner who was to referee the fixture.
Both teams stayed where we were with the opposition opting for the kick off. The referee stood with the captains and posed for a picture, giving a fifty pence piece to each team’s mascots. The photographer’s flash fired uselessly in the bright sunshine. As the mascots left the field to warm applause, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I turned to see my fellow striker, the ebullient Frenchman, Michel Valjean.
“Be lucky,” said the Frenchman in heavily accented English, “and make sure you pass me the ball now and again.”
We shook hands and took up our positions on the edge of the centre circle. Noise echoed around us as the anxious crowd anticipated the kick off. I suddenly felt an urgent need to relieve myself but I knew that it was just a nervous reaction. The whistle blew and all other thoughts and worries disappeared as adrenaline pushed my body forward in pursuit of the brand new, Nike leather panelled football.
*****************
The ball skittered across the newly watered turf at pace running on behind and past the defender. I ran onto the ball and controlled it before the defender had a chance to turn. I had two yards start and an advantage in speed. I reached the corner of the eighteen yard box on my own, though the covering central defender was bearing down on me at speed. I pushed the ball forward a yard, not daring to take it to the by-line in case the inevitable tackle that was to follow robbed me of possession. The two defenders were within a yard of me now. I swung my right foot catching the moving ball on my instep. There followed the sweet slap of boot leather on ball that tells you that you made a good connection. The ball shot off into the goalmouth. I didn’t see it arrive because two defenders and myself were sliding unceremoniously into touch in an unorganised huddle.
When we came to a standstill we all looked across to the goal area. Michel, left all on his own as the central defender covered me, had taken the ball on his chest and killed the pace. The ball fell slowly, almost in slow motion, onto his volleying foot. The goalkeeper was almost upon him, making himself big with arms and legs spread, but the ball had gone. The ball was tearing at the back of the net before the goalkeeper hit the floor. Eight minutes played and the referee was pointing to the centre spot. It was one - nil.
The first half was a scrambled midfield battle, exciting to play in but awful to watch. The Wanderers made life very difficult for us and we couldn’t find the space or the time we had become used to in the Premiership. The first half drew to a close after forty seven minutes without any further chances falling to either side.
*************
The warm spring sunshine had taken its toll on the opposition and they were being spurred on by their famous manager as we walked down the tunnel, studs clattering on the concrete floor. The changing rooms were basic but the players were glad to sit down on the hard wooden benches and take a drink. Some shirts came off as players tried to cool down. Fresh shirts were available for those who wanted rid of their sweat soaked tops.
Isotonic drinks were handed around and drained in seconds, players panting as they remembered to take a breath. I spoke to a couple of the younger lads who had worked hard in the first half and I received a couple of, “Good work, skip,” type comments as I passed the lads. The manager turned to face the team.
“You’ve done very well in the first half,” his Scots brogue was always calming. “But you are a street ahead of these boys in skill and pace. Don’t get involved in a scrap, let the ball do the work. Get your passing working again. Look, these boys will come out like lions in the second half. Weather the storm and stay tight at the back. Right, Terry?”
“Yes, Boss,” The big central defender agreed.
Our defence was unbreachable when Terry played well.
“Good. Now, Alex,” I looked into the deeply weathered face. “I want you and Michel to push up. We can catch these boys on the break as and when they start to tire. See if you can get us a two goal cushion. It’s nerve wracking sitting on the bench when there’s ten minutes to go and only a goal in it. OK?”
I smiled my response and there was a knock on the door. The referee was ready for the second half.
************
The boss
was right. The first ten minutes was an onslaught. I found myself ignoring instructions and going back to help in defence. Neither my friendship nor my captaincy counted for anything when I headed a dangerous ball out for a corner and came nose to nose with my red faced Icelandic keeper.
“I had that, you Pratt,” he snarled in his Scando-Mancunian accent.“ Get out of my damned way.”
The boy was picking up the language quickly. However, I did as he asked and he collected the corner safely. The Wanderers had committed almost everyone to the corner kick and as Aaron, our bad tempered goalie, threw one of his famous long balls over my head, I ran on to it. Noting that only Michel and two of Wanderer’s defenders were between me and the goal, I ran with the ball. Unchallenged for a good forty yards I sprinted down the right wing before cutting inside. The full back made the mistake of standing off me, allowing me to position myself for a shot. A fraction too late the covering defender launched himself at the ball which was by now in flight. Unable to block it, he deflected it away from the jumping goalkeeper. The goalkeeper was beaten for the second time in the game and could only watch as the ball dipped and bounced back off the crossbar.
I couldn’t believe the goalie’s luck and neither could he. It was as if his body was in spasm, he jerked alive from being static and tried to gather the ball. To my great relief my gallic striking partner slid in and pushed the ball into an open goal. The crowd erupted and I leaped onto my teammate who carried me as easily as if I were a child. We had a two goal lead and the Wanderer’s heads went down.
The next ten minutes were all kick and rush as the opposition went down fighting but in the twenty second minute Michel broke quickly on the left, drawing the defender to him. He then passed the ball to me, perfectly weighted, I didn’t even have to break my stride. Thirty yards out, I had one defender to beat. I kept the ball on my toe and ran waiting for the defender to commit himself to the tackle. When he did, I slotted the ball through his open legs and side-stepped his clumsy attempt at grabbing me as I passed. Under the rules, if I had been brought down he would have been shown the red card, as I was through on goal. However, I managed to hurdle the outstretched leg and collect the ball. The keeper stood up for a long time, making it difficult for me, only going down when I feigned a shot. I chipped the ball over his diving body and watched as my twenty first goal of the season went in. My joy at taking the team into the semi finals was, however, short lived.
************
Dean Butler was a hard defender who had learned his trade in the non league ranks and had honed his dubious tackling skills at the less popular London clubs. A good header of the ball and a skilful defender he had courted controversy for much of his career. We had played together a few times for the national team and had always got on well. He was usually a joker. But not today.
By the time the third goal hit the net the match was effectively over. With ten minutes to go our midfield passed the ball around with consummate skill. The Wanderers would race after the man with the ball only to find it gone when they got there. It must have been frustrating for the opposition as ten then fifteen passes were strung together without them touching the ball. the crowd became voluble again, cheering each pass in what can only be described as a mocking tone. At the time we enjoyed the moment and looked forward to the celebrations.
Eventually after a short spell Wanderer’s number eight tackled well in the centre circle and the ball spun out unpredictably. Our right back picked it up on the wing and made a run, I moved inside for the pass. The ball came and I trapped it ready to pass back. Just as I released the ball I caught sight of Dean Butler coming into the tackle.
When I realised that contact was inevitable I tried to jump over the oncoming boots, but before I could move Dean crashed into my legs.
In an average career you take knocks, some serious, and I’ve had my share. I have had my leg broken in a tackle and I know how it feels, but nothing had prepared me for the agony I felt now. When the boots hit my right leg on the side I heard the bones crack. Those around me said it sounded like a gunshot. A surge of the most incredible pain lurched through my body. My mind clouded over as my vision blurred until I could only see clearly in the centre of my vision. Voices sounded distant and I thought I would slip into unconsciousness. A long whistle, interminably long, blew and time was suspended as was the pain. Within seconds though, my vision cleared and the pain returned. It was at this point that I came to understand that the greatest pain was in my knee. The pain came over me in waves and I began to feel sick. Well meaning St John’s ambulance men lifted me onto a wheeled stretcher, so familiar in World Cup in South Africa. I screamed, the pain was unbearable. There were pads either side of my leg strapped on as splints but every step they took was agony. Seeing my distress Michel came across and cradled my head and shoulders in a surprisingly compassionate way. He stayed with me until the touchline.
“Don’t worry,” he said as he departed. “Everything will be all right.”
But neither of us believed that most conspicuous of lies. The crowd were silent until we reached the tunnel when applause resounded around the stadium. I tried to focus on the concerned faces but blackness engulfed me and I passed out.
************
The next few minutes were a disorienting spiral of familiar and unfamiliar faces looking down at me from odd angles with varying degrees of interest. A heavy set man with a back pack and headphones pushed a microphone towards me and asked if I thought it was a serious injury. I tried to respond with the foulest of insults but the words died in the dryness of my throat.
"By Heck, he looks pale." Don the club doctor had never lost his Yorkshire accent in all of his years away from his home county. He was a gruff and red faced man who had never developed a bedside manner, nor did he mince words..
"Look," he said as if I was able to comprehend through the nearly impenetrable blanket of pain. "Your leg is broken, both the tibia and the fibula have gone, but not to worry." He looked more closely at my injuries, and I yelped.
"It's a clean break," he continued. "No problem at all, four to six weeks in plaster. But your knee..." he probed with his big sausage like fingers and I winced, all the while gritting my teeth.
"There's some trauma here, it's swelling up very quickly. We had better get some ice on that. I don't like the look of it." He looked away from me and spoke softly to someone I couldn't see.
"Get him to the Belvedere Hospital, it's only four or five miles past the General Hospital and they have a sports injury consultant who is well respected in his field. Hold on, I'll give you his mobile phone number. You might just catch him.” He paused to write. “If he isn't at a match he'll be on the golf course or at the races." Don scribbled a message in a little black notepad that looked for all the world like a referee's notebook. He looked at me solemnly.
"I daren't give you anything for the pain yet, son, but try the gas and air in the ambulance. It might help."
I heard a cheer as I was loaded into the ambulance. The game was underway again.
“My daughter,” I cried. I had almost forgotten about Tanya.
“Don’t you worry son.” It was the steady voice of the manager. “She’ll be fine staying with Frances and me for a couple of days.” I relaxed and was immediately overcome by a spasm of pain.
************
Big gulps of gas and air made me feel light headed but the pain subsided a little. Soon I was beginning to feel nauseous and so had to forego the little relief that the heady mixture of gases had brought. The pain continued to come in waves as the ambulance raced through the Saturday afternoon traffic with the siren blaring and lights flashing when any obstacle stood in the way.
The ambulance doors opened as we came to a halt and I was stretchered into the hospital’s Accident and Emergency unit. A junior houseman examined my leg without comment and within minutes I was transferred to a trolley. Ceiling lights passed by almost subliminally as we moved quickly through the long corridors. When we
eventually came to a standstill we were in some kind of ante room with a glass panel overlooking a bank of bright lights. A doctor of Asian extraction asked me a few questions and I whispered a few hoarse answers between bursts of stinging pain in my knee. My leg, though broken, simply ached and produced a level of discomfort with which I could have coped, had it not been for the pain in my knee. Aware of my suffering the doctor spoke reassuringly.
"I am going to give you a little injection, it will reduce the pain but it may make you feel a little sleepy." The sharp stab of the needle in my thigh was followed by a gradual numbing of my leg. At long last I was free from the pain. I hadn't realised how tense I had been and without the pain I was able to let out a deep sigh and sink my head into the pillow. Within a few minutes a new face was standing over me. The face was smiling and youthful, the eyes bright, both belying the age of their owner. Mr Webster, the specialist was in his fifties with thinning grey hair that appeared silver in the backlighting provided by the bright theatre lights.
"I don't want you to worry," he said, "we are all experts here and we'll get your leg back in working order just as soon as we can."
If I had not been so light headed I would have concluded that I must have been in a bad way to require such empty promises. A lady anaesthetist in a blue cap and mask stuck a needle into the back of my hand. The needle was connected to a tube.
Final Whistle Page 3
