The two goalkeepers rose in unison, multi coloured jerseys clashing as violently as their respective wearers. Aaron had a look of grim determination painted on his normally pleasant face. The Spurs goalkeeper saw only the ball. Long hair flapping around his head, the Spurs goalkeeper connected first and headed the ball as well as any striker I had ever seen. Aaron clasped his arms together to gather the ball, but it had already gone.
The ball bounced into the empty net and the Spurs fans erupted in an explosion of noise. There was confusion and disarray on the pitch, not to mention despair. It was then that I noticed it. The linesman’s flag was raised, fluttering in the breeze and signalling an offside. The referee looked across. Would he give it? He had every right to over-rule it. He had been right on top of the action.
The referee ran backwards out of the melee and blew his whistle. Would he point to the centre spot? No. He signalled the free kick and the United fans raised the roof. The Spurs goalkeeper did not question the decision. He had obviously suspected that he was offside all along. Victory had been rescued from the jaws of defeat.
The final whistle blew while the ball was in the air from the resulting free kick. United had reached the final.
CHAPTER 9
I was shocked when I saw my left leg for the first time since quarter final day. It was as white as a sheet, thin, wrinkled and withered. Of course, I have had a broken leg before, but you forget how bad it looks when it has been starved of sunshine, fresh air and exercise. All of the muscle tone was gone and the leg didn’t feel like a part of my body.
I was told to keep my leg flat on the trolley to keep the knee immobile until the operation. The consultant showed me the X Ray on a lighted panel. He pointed to a vague shadow where the break had been. The leg had set exceptionally well, due in no small part to his quick action on the day of the injury. Had it not been for the knee operation I could have walked out of the hospital that day and, after intense physiotherapy, I would have been playing in a few short weeks. But that was not to be.
Mr Webster, the grey haired consultant, explained the procedure to me. He was going to investigate the knee damage and try to repair it. Using a type of strong medical ‘glue’ it was now possible to accelerate the bonding process between ligament and bone. If that procedure was appropriate he would use it so that I could be back on my feet as soon as possible. The main thing, he emphasised time and again, was to keep the knee immobile until it had a chance to repair itself and regain some of its former strength.
“Alex. Hold this cast.” He handed me the full leg plaster cast that had just been removed. It was heavy.
“Now, try this.” He replaced it with a cast that looked to be made of some plastic or resin material. The cast itself was much smaller and thinner but even so its lightness surprised me. My consultant opened the cast up to show me a cross section through it.
“The reason that it is much lighter is partly because of the material and partly because of the aeration in the material.” As I looked more closely I could see a honeycomb effect, which reminded me of an Aero chocolate bar.
“So I am really carrying around half material and half air pockets?” I suggested.
“Well, the ratio is not quite right but the principle is correct. You see plaster casts are prone to damage. Over a period of time they soften as the plaster crumbles around the bandaging. To compensate for this we tend to make the casts a good deal thicker than they need to be. This new material is very difficult to break.” He put the cast down on the floor and stood on it. There were no signs of the material giving way. He continued his explanation.
“It has structural properties that would be best described by an engineer. I am told that the technology is derived from the construction industry, where they use a very similar material to repair unsound roofs from the underside.”
“So I’ll be a little more mobile?” I asked.
“Absolutely. If you have some wide leg trousers made, you will be able to dress almost normally.”
“And my crutches?”
“I think you will need them in the short term but I would like you to try to manage without them as soon as possible.” He closed his clipboard and asked the nurse to ‘prep’ me for afternoon surgery.
************
The next few days are best forgotten. I suffered a good deal of pain which the prescribed painkillers did little to relieve. I was confined to an uncomfortable hospital bed and I felt dozy most of the time, a side effect of the medication, I suppose. I was glad when the stitches were removed and I had my ‘high tech’ cast applied.
A week later I was out and about, with just one crutch, and feeling much better. On the Monday I felt well enough to accept the club chairman’s invitation to lunch at the Stadium restaurant. Bill Fisher sent his driver to collect me.
I first met Bill Fisher when I was a youth player for another club. I had the opportunity of joining United and my dad had to sign the papers. Bill Fisher, Chairman and Chief Executive, delivered them personally. Naturally Dad was overawed, and signed on the dotted line without ever reading the contract. It didn’t matter because the club were more than generous to me then and have been ever since. Bill must have been in his early sixties by this time and in addition to his interest in United he also owned Fisher Investments Ltd.
************
Bill’s background was well known to everyone in football. After a series of poor seasons in the late 1960’s, United were relegated to the second division. This was total anathema to the fans, players and everyone involved in the club. They were the first English team to bring back a major European honour, and yet two seasons later they were struggling to stay in the second division. Changes were demanded. The chairman resigned under pressure from the board and an enthusiastic thirty year old builder and developer bid for his shares. Bill Fisher was that builder and he became chairman. Within a month the manager, half the board and a dozen players had gone. Using his personal fortune, gained from property development in London, he brought in young players from across the UK and he hired an experienced manager who had once played for United.
Promotion followed quickly and there were some improvements, but not enough. A progression of managers came and went, each achieving a little. It wasn’t until the mid eighties that things began to change.
Bill Fisher had bought five hundred acres of barren wasteland in the London area. He got it for a song because no-one else wanted it. Suddenly a planning application went in for Canary Wharf and everything changed. Bill Fisher was sitting on a prime parcel of real estate. He turned down every offer to buy and instead used his building company to develop the land for offices, shops and flats.
Yuppies were born and Fisher Developments were selling them flats at a quarter of a million pounds each. Money came rolling in. Bill used the money to improve his team, his management and the ground. In the next few years he was rewarded with a golden era in the club’s history. United took the FA Cup and then the League before winning them both in one season, twice. With fans around the world buying United merchandise, and with the Sky TV money filling the coffers, the club became self sufficient for the first time.
Bill Fisher floated the Club on the Stock Exchange and instead of continually pumping money into the club he saw an immediate return.
************
I sat in the directors’ dining room and watched the workmen adding another tier to the main stand. Hopefully it would be ready before Christmas, but we have all heard builders’ promises.
“Hello, Alex.” Bill Fisher strode across the carpet inlaid with the club’s crest and shook my hand. “You know, we should do this more often. I don’t get to meet with the players the way I used to.” There was a look of regret in his eyes.
“Thanks for the invitation, Mr Fisher. To be honest I’m getting a bit bored sitting around with very little to do.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Alex. We’ll use first names shall we? After all, this is an informal lunch.”
I agreed and we sat down to order from the menu. When the silver service waitress left with our orders Bill got to the purpose of the discussion.
“This morning we have put in a bid for Emilio Zavra.”
He looked at me, waiting for a reaction. I pretended to be unconcerned at the club’s purchase of a straight replacement for my striker’s role, but I suspect that my concern showed on my face. My mind raced as I tried to remember all that I knew of the Portuguese international. Emilio Zavra had come to prominence in Italy’s Serie A in the last two years. He was only twenty two but it was estimated that he was already worth twenty million pounds. Other than those few bare facts and a few impressive performances on live Sunday afternoon matches on Football Italia, I knew very little.
“I know that this will be a concern to you,” he continued, “but I know that someday you’ll be back in that captain’s armband and we’ll have to worry about what we do with Amelio. I think you’ll admit that isn’t a bad position to be in. A surfeit of world class strikers on the books.”
“Thanks,” I said lamely. He was being polite and courteous. My future in any type of football was uncertain. My future at the top level of football was almost assuredly over the day Dean Butler smashed my knee.
We ate a hearty lunch and drank a bottle of exquisite red wine as he explained that I would remain on United’s books until I decided I no longer wanted to be. He reminded me of my permanent health insurance which would pay me in full, including average bonuses, for six months. Thereafter the club would ensure that I was paid under my contract, which had two years to run. Should the “unthinkable happen”( his words not mine), United’s insurers would pay me a percentage of my salary annually until the date my career would reasonably have been expected to end. In Bill’s view I would be comfortably provided for by others for up to five years before I had to rely on my own means. I was grateful for the security, but I really would have swapped all of my money for the chance to play in the Premiership again.
Bill Fisher toyed with his Brandy, anxious to be away but not wanting to say as much. I gave him his let out.
“Bill. I really must think about getting back. I am getting a replacement car delivered today.”
“Yes, I know. I hope it fits the bill. I had a Mercedes S350 myself until recently. Great car.”
On that we parted and the bill was added to his account.
************
I really hated the idea of losing my own Mercedes, but I had chosen a sports convertible with manual gears and a clutch. What I needed now was an automatic car with minor adaptations, so that I could drive again without using my left leg. The club were keen to help, and one of our sponsors was the local Mercedes dealership. In these straitened time the annual lease for the Mercedes S350 was less than that for my old car and so we all benefited. Even so I was depressed by the thought of changing cars. Somehow it seemed like an admission of defeat. An acceptance that my leg was unlikely to be fully restored.
The shiny blue- black saloon pulled up in front of the house and a dark suited salesman emerged to clean invisible spots of dirt off the bonnet. I went outside and examined the sleek machine with its twin elliptical headlights. The salesman ran through the special features for me.
“Obviously it is automatic, but you can select sports or economical mode for the gear change. We usually keep our automatics on sports mode. The interior is full leather, the stereo has a Bose Satellite Radio, hard drive for your MP3’s and 6 speakers. Most of the other features are similar to your other car.” He paused and then, remembering the adaptations he continued.
“Usually the parking brake is operated with your left foot, but we have removed that pedal and replaced it with this handle.” He pointed to a plastic handle by the centre console. “You pull this handle and the parking brake comes on, and the release is in its usual position. Oh. You’ll also find that you have plenty of room for your injured leg. We measured it all up for you.” He held out the keys for me.
Sitting comfortably in the car after he left I set the radio stations to my own preference. I then tested the sound system with Tanya’s Ipod. If it could take Axel Rose it could manage my music. I tried sitting in the driving position. I was sure that once I got used to not having a clutch I would be fine.
************
Whilst the new lightweight cast was a great boon, my leg still ached in the mornings and so I sent Tanya down to collect the post. She came thumping up the stairs, making the sort of noise one would expect from someone three times her weight. Throwing my letters onto the bed, she danced around with a gaily coloured envelope in her hand.
“Guess what I’ve got?” She squealed with delight.
“Obviously not your exam results,” I teased. She took a second or two to scowl at me before resuming her euphoric dance.
“The passes,” she said, “Gran has sent the passes for Disneyworld. It’s only nine more weeks.” She leapt onto the bed and I yelped.
“Oh, don’t be such a grouse,” she chastised. “We need to buy the plane tickets and.....”
“Come here,” I interrupted, holding out my arm. She came and sat beside me and I kissed her on the forehead. Without thinking she used the arm of her bathrobe to wipe her brow as if she had been licked by a slobbering dog. I just smiled. For twenty minutes she babbled on about what we would do in Florida, where we would go, what we needed to pack. Eventually I forced her off the bed and demanded that she get ready for school. She took the tickets with her.
I opened the first letter. It was from Tony McDonald at Sky Sports. He had enclosed the arrangements for my first appearance as a paid employee. I was to travel to Anfield for the Liverpool v Chelsea game on Sunday and they would take me down to Isleworth for the Monday Night Match presentation. I have to admit to having been quite nervous.
The second letter did nothing to calm my nerves. It was the barrister’s notes from the timetable hearing for my action against Dean Butler. I had been warned that the case would not be heard for over a year. When I deciphered the note I realised that the court had listed us as ‘second fixture’ for October of this year. That was only six months away. Apparently a number of cases had settled, thinning out the October list, and the other side had pushed for a quick trial date. Christopher Byron, knowing my impatience, had agreed to the early date. Of course there were advantages and disadvantages in all of these things and the disadvantage was that we had to exchange witness statements and agree ‘trial bundles’ within two months.
I called the barrister’s chambers to clarify just what I was expected to do. Counsel explained that I needed to provide any TV footage I wanted to rely on in court, by the middle of May. The video, witness statements, my statement of claim and Butler’s defence together, constituted what was known as the trial bundle. He then explained that being second fixture almost guaranteed that we would be in court on, or about, the stated date. I hoped that Sky would help with the video evidence because otherwise I was struggling.
************
When I arrived at Anfield it was bustling. There were technicians running around with leads, cables and cameras. There were two large outside broadcast vehicles parked outside the ground, one was connected to an enormous satellite dish. The name on the side of the vans was Northern Broadcast Services Ltd. It was only ten thirty when my taxi arrived and I had expected the ground to be quiet, as the match kicked off at four in the afternoon.
I entered the open door of the bigger van. Inside it was dark and a bank of TV monitors glowed blue, grey and speckly black and white. The larger monitors were in the centre and these were the preview monitors and the broadcast monitor used to decide what pictures were sent to Sky. I already knew that for the Sunday matches the programme was edited on site and fed back to Sky in its broadcast form.
“Alex Carter isn’t it?” The accent was more Geordie than Scouse.
“Yes,” I replied, “and you?”
“I’m George, today’s match director.
I’ll show you around the Techie stuff and then we’ll go and find Danny and the others.”
In an enlightening half hour I discovered that the outside broadcast vehicles and cameramen were all sub contracted to Sky. It appeared that Sky ran a tight ship as far as overheads go. There were no nameless bodies floating around with clipboards and headsets, as there had been when I worked for other broadcasters. I was also impressed by the high technology available at sites so remote from the studio. I told George that it was an amazing set up and he blushed.
In the Sky box overlooking the magnificent stadium and the still green turf, people were erecting the logo backboards and table that identified the broadcaster so clearly. By the time the cameras and the presenters were in here it would be very intimate, some would say a crush. I stood with Tony McDonald and Ian Patten, the match commentator. Ian and I had met many times before and we had always got on well. It was the habit of commentators to stay at the same hotels as the travelling teams, even travelling with them if the match was abroad. This led to a camaraderie that was useful when the broadcasters needed expert summarisers.
Ian and I worked our way to the gantry from where we would commentate on the match. I had often been a studio guest but I had never shared the commentary before.
Final Whistle Page 9
