|
Making Allowances
Chapter 12 part 2
|
|
“Aww Christ, ref, someone call an
ambulance….Allright mate…Just lie still…You’ll be OK..” I rolled onto my back, another
player ran over, I saw his face screw up as he surveyed the scene and turned
away. “Oh no…Oh bloody hell.” I looked down at my legs, the right
foot was stuck fast almost at right angles to where it should have been. The
white sock was torn and I could see bone sticking out from beneath the reddening
fabric. The physio came on and ordered the St John’s Ambulance people on to
the pitch. Players gathered around. Some came over to whisper words of comfort
and encouragement, others stood well away. “It’s not good, is it?” I
asked the physio, “No lad,” was all that he could
say. I heard the polite clapping as I was
carried away on the stretcher. By now I was beginning to lapse in and out of
consciousness. Perhaps it was shock, I don’t know. I do recall that the pain
seemed to grow less intense, perhaps it was the body’s own natural endorphins
starting to take over which was releasing something into my system, but from
then on, things became very confused. The ambulance arrived, upon which
time I was given a morphine injection, and gas and air, as the vehicle rushed to
the Hospital. All sorts of odd things started to happen with my temperature and
blood pressure. My memory of the time I spent in A&E is not very vivid. I do
recall having X-Rays taken, being “wired up” on a monitor, and of all
things, I remember the feeling of warm water on the leg, as I assume they
cleaned up the wound. After what seemed ages, the Staff
Nurse at A&E was eventually able to inform me of what had happened. “I’m afraid it’s not good
news. You have multiple fractures to the lower part of your right leg, your
fibula. You’ve also dislocated your ankle and torn all your major ankle
ligaments. We’ve put your dislocated back in as best we can, but I’m afraid
you are going to need an operation to fix the leg, before we can plaster it
up.” “Will I recover?” “I should think so, much depends
on how the op goes, you may need more than one.” I sighed and lay back. “No more
football for you,” she added. I was taken up to a quiet ward with
a couple of old men and a young lad. Later that night, I was taken down for the
operation, it must have lasted about an hour and a half or so. I was very
disorientated and dehydrated when I came to and was wheeled back up to the ward
to sleep. The next day, the Consultant came to
see me. He showed me the “before” and “after” X-Rays. He informed me
that the operation had gone very well, and that they had inserted a plate and
screws in the leg to ensure that the bone would knit back together properly.
However, because of the degree of open wound and ligament damage, it would be a
few days yet before they could plaster
the leg up. He advised me that I would probably be in hospital for a week and
that there would be seven to eight further weeks in plaster, before I could even
start thinking about physiotherapy. “What about football?” I asked
him. The Consultant sat on the edge of
the bed and looked at me for a few moments. “I think,” he said softly,
“that it’s very unlikely that you will play football again.” He rubbed his
chin, almost apologetically, “I’m very sorry. Just try to take things one
day at a time. Concentrate on getting out of here first. One day at a time.”
With that he was gone. I lay back and gazed up at the bare
ceiling, shattered. So, that was that. Ellie visited again that morning, she had
been with me before theatre the previous night. She looked very tired, and said
she had not slept. I told her what the Consultant had said, she didn’t seem
very sympathetic. “You don’t seriously think that
I would be happy for you to carry on playing after all this, do you?” he
complained. “But I love the game.” I
remonstrated. “And what about me, do you love
football more than you love me?” I didn’t reply, instead I
remembered how we did not understand Dad’s insistence that he would return to
horseracing after his big accident. I wondered if the outcome would have been
the same if Mum had had the courage or tenacity to have asked him a similar
question all those years ago. Faced with this question now, from someone who
loved me, I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end as well as knowing
how it felt to be the person who would ask the question. Whether it was a fair
question or not is hard to say, one certain thing was that there was no easy
answer. “I don’t think we should be
talking about this right now,” said Ellie. I could tell that she was upset and
angry, it wouldn’t be fair to her to try and pick an argument about it when
she was doing her best to come to terms with what had happened. “Anyway,” she said, “your
Dad’s here. I’ve got to do a few things so I’ll let him stay with you,
I’ll be back with some things later.” In walked Dad. He reminded me of a
small child on his first day at School, as he looked around the place with an
air of unease. He said that he had always viewed Hospitals like a nice version
or prison. He had never been to one, and had spent as little time as he could,
in the other, but I was beginning to see what he meant. He brought in some magazines;
Formula One, Cricket, and notably, a Racing Post. “What, no football?” I asked,
trying to make a joke. He smiled, a sad smile, and said
nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, lips pursed, eyes sorrowful, rubbing my
forearm. “Horrible here, isn’t it?” he
murmured. Well, he was always honest. “They say I’ll never play
again.” I tried to quell the aching feeling that you get when you want to cry. “I know,” he whispered, sitting
quietly, like a loyal old pet, just as he had done when I was ill as a little
boy. He sighed. The words just weren’t coming. “That’s that, then. Didn’t get
far with my sporting dream either, did I ?” Dad pursed his lips shut even
tighter, I couldn’t tell if he was going to smile or start to cry himself. “Yep” he nodded. “Suppose
it’s all up to me now.” More protracted silence, Dad was
many things, but he was a hopeless hospital visitor. “Dad?” I asked, “Why d’you
think it is, that the things we love so cruel to us?” “I don’t know.” He shrugged. He thought some more. “We give a lot to sport. Racing
football, cricket. I think we grow to expect a lot in return. The thing is
though, you can’t compare sport to something like making a cake. With sport,
you can put in all the ingredients, but you don’t necessarily get them back in
the form that you want them. Sometimes, you don’t get any back. There are no
guarantees, it’s not that simple.” He thought some more. “ What I’m trying to say, is
that you can put a lot into sport, without getting an awful lot out of it. But
the one certain thing is, if you don’t put anything in, then you will
get nothing out. You know, fail to prepare, prepare to fail, and all that.
We’ve got some things out of sport, even without really achieving much. “ “We’ve got friends and memories,
I had a few close finishes, scored a lot of runs, got my handicap down, you
played good football, reasonable cricketer. We’ve probably got a few regrets,
but it wasn’t a complete waste of time. You have to be in it to win it, but
there are certain things you can take away from sport that are nothing to do
with winning”. “What else would we have done,
anyway?” he asked, almost profoundly. I returned to the image of the cake. “You said that you can put in all
the ingredients, but it won’t necessarily make a cake.” I began to laugh.
“ I suppose it has something to do with how you mix it all up.” “That’s fate,” Dad shrugged,
“that’s where luck comes in. It’s something you can’t account for.” “So, what am I supposed to do
now?” I asked. “Something will turn up,” said
Dad. “You’ve been reading too much
Dickens,” I scoffed, “Mr Micawber.” “Believe me, something will turn
up. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but something will happen, you must believe
that.” He looked at his watch, “I have to
go,” he said, “but I’ll be back tomorrow after work, and every night as
long as you are here.” He was as good as his word. Each
night he came and sat for half an hour, with new books, magazines, papers and
gossip. Most times he would say hardly anything, other days he would still be
talking when all the other visitors had gone. Again, in these dark days he was a
tower of strength and I grew to see him in a new light. I remembered how bitter
I had been when he had sustained all his racing injuries, and how intolerant I
had grown with the passing of time, yet his only crime was to pursue the thing
he loved. Now, here I was lying in hospital,
in not dissimilar circumstances, cut down by the very thing I loved. Yet Dad
showed none of my anger or bitterness, instead an
understanding of what makes men do the things that they do and an
unconditional love, to pick up the pieces when everything came crashing down.
|
|
If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk
© Copyright Richie Phillips. No unauthorised reproduction allowed. |
|
Hosted by www.HorseData.co.uk. The web's equine information service. |