A Footballer’s Hell

Dear reader, you are in for a real treat with the following story, which just might, stretch your imagination passed it’s safe elastic limits. 

 A Footballer’s Hell

Here I am and here I go. It all began in a football stadium tunnel. I hear the chanting and singing of thousands of fans who have filled the terraces, and my butterflies start to flutter as I walk toward its gaping mouth of fear and truth.

Judgemental beams of light greet me as I leave the tunnel’s entombing safety as the searchlights cast convictions on an already broken man. Gleeful jeers are everywhere as the crowd seize on this humiliating situation. I look around at my tormentors but see nothing as the authoritative lights blind my vision.

I look to the scoreboard yonder, squinting through the pulsating light to read it clearly. It says Hope 0 fear 1. Just below the scoreboard is the stadium's big TV screen showing me, standing next to two men in uniform, intently watching the game that I didn't realise had started. More worryingly, I didn’t recognise any of my team mates.

The men escort me along the side-line towards the dugout of the away team with my ankles shackled trailing cuffed hands behind my back. I massage the painful bruises as the restraints are pulled leaving chafed flesh indentations for all to see. Jangling keys are replaced with much fuss and ceremony as we take our positions.

As I sit down in the dugout a voice whispers next to me. “It's time. Get ready kid.” The linesman flags for a substitution to the referee; and on cue, I tuck my shirt in and slowly approach the side line.

The home fans start to boo and chant. “Who are ya? Who are ya? as my number appears on the substitutes board. The player who is making way for me claps the fans for their support, and they are right back at him with a standing ovation in honour of his superb performance.

His confident demeanour looks familiar as he gets closer to the handover point until finally he grasps my hand and looks me straight in the eye. I am stunned. I am replacing a younger version of myself perhaps when I was 18 or 19 years old. He leans into my left ear and says, “You went from living your dreams to surviving a nightmare. Now fulfil your destiny. You're still good and pure, and don't let anyone else make you think otherwise. Go on and give them hell.” He softly pats my shoulder and is suddenly no more as the shadowy tunnel devours his image.

I look down at the freshly painted side line contrasting with the manicured grass as it glistens under the bright lights. The crowd are on their feet again booing and chanting obscenities to belittle my entrance into the game. Inhaling this hostile atmosphere would choke my lungs so I exhale with force and purpose in an attempt to remain composed and focussed. Images of Eric Cantona come to mind as I flick up my collar and mimic his confident gait striding headlong into adversity as he himself did on many occasions. King Eric...long live the king.

My first touch never materialised. I was brutally hacked and fell to the ground like a sack of spuds and the perpetrator of this meaty challenge snarls: “welcome to the game.” He trots off out of the referee's radar who was indifferent to the challenge and waved play on. Fifteen minutes of mayhem followed with studs-up tackles, elbows to the chest and face and constant shirt pulling all designed to keep me in touching distance with the opposition's enforcers.

All of the first half, I struggle with my form. I'm a step to slow or a step too far as I try to make an impact and get into the game, but my frustrations only seem to enhance my dismal display. I am always an anxious second behind the beat. I couldn't hit a donkey with a banjo right now, and don't the so called fans now it. Players I would expect to close in for the kill and exploit weakness, but not the officials.

The familiar shrill brings the first half to a close, and the score is still 1 to the fear and a big fat zero to hope. Self-esteem at rock bottom, I walk slowly down the tunnel from which I had just come ready to face the inevitable barrage. The bench looks inviting as I pull off my shirt, and sit gazing down at my mocking boots. In desperation, I hide under my shirt from the world around me to gain some degree of peace and privacy during this harrowing moment.

Sweat finds its way down my shirtless body like tears streaming down the cheek of a lonely lover longing for the night to end, and the light of a new day sent to ease her misery and torment. There was a time not too long ago when I had no fear of failure and no concerns about what ifs. But that time seems like a different life. Not my life but a stranger's. There was a time when I was all smiles and all around embraced me for what I was. Now I am a stranger inflicting sorrow. There was a time. That was my time. Is my time over? Does time repeat? I know time moves on. There was a time...

These thoughts fire and explode in my mind as I sit back and close my eyes grateful for the mental relief, if only temporary. A dark chill suddenly enters the room demanding my immediate attention, and from the shadows a voice makes itself known.

Speaking with purpose the voice explained. “You are here to fight for your freedom. This is not just the most important match of your life, but this match is, and will, define your life when you return to the world you know so well.”

 I open my eyes to see the voice, but the darkness somehow prevents this. He knows he has my attention so he continues. “I'm not going lie to you son, but you are up against the toughest competition you have ever faced. You are away from home in an arena that wants you to fail and give up. They all want you to fail kid. And if you don't win tonight, it's over. Your sanity, passions, loves and desires, all gone. Mister, you have a choice. If you hang up your boots, you die. You my friend are the unwanted underdog. Keep playing until you are victorious once again.”

The enigmatic voice of wisdom returned to the shadowy recess whence it came without giving me time to seek answers to a myriad of questions dominating my thoughts. Who was he? Where am I? Why help me? Is there still hope?

A cracked mirror draws my attention. The distorted reflection I see before me I soon realise is the view that I have of myself. The harder I look at the person in the mirror, the more it becomes clear. I see the golden boy with so much promise and the talent with the potential to greatness. The coach with the whole world before him. I once again see the man who was loved by all who knew him well enough on the pathway of life.

Images within images rotate and I soon see the drained confidence, the deflated ego and the loss of hope and joy for my life. They are breaking me, I sigh, wondering why I should allow strangers to write my destiny and decide my fate. “The wind does not break a tree that bends.” I must be strong and adapt. To have any sort of chance, I must stop punishing myself more than the world already does. And if I can't love me, who can I love? If I can't move on in life, everyone will dwell on the past. The past is my greatest regret, The future is my greatest fear which brings me round to the present which has to be my greatest friend.

Once again the mirror demands my attention as I play mental ping pong with these thoughts. Suddenly, there are no more cracks; but a hooded figure closes in behind me, and I stare at the reflection. The features, sharp and acute, stare back. Maybe it's the voice? The voice speaks.

“Hanging up your boots to bow down to strangers who only see black and white is a cowardly choice. Don't bow down to strangers' desires. Taking the first step to walk in those boots shows the true spirit and character of a special player and person. Whatever mistakes you make in life, no matter how grave, the black cloud of judgement will ease as you earn respect by accepting the consequences and endeavour to make something of you and your life.” He pauses and then he whispers. “Give up and surrender or keep going and prosper.”

I see my life in fast forward with an influx of joy, sadness, love and hate. It's an emotional roller-coaster. All of my trials and tribulations, all of my joys and jubilations of the years spent on this planet. The challenges to make a success out of failure are utilised now to defeat the biggest obstacle of my young life. All of my heart breaks and broken dreams, and the people I have lost in death and love, are lost all the same.

Answers elude me to the questions I tangle with each day, but I do know I can overcome any adversity I face. I'm still here, right! I'm hanging on, and I'm breathing. With all the love coming from family and friends, and with a ball at my feet, no one can stop me now, except me.

It's time to be the villain, the underdog who somehow wins the heart of his foes. With will and love, come ways and hope.

Back on the pitch, I have the motivation and drive to conquer and vanquish any obstacles in my way. I'm smarter, faster, better and stronger than before. I'm humble, hopeful, truthful and rightful.

Cameras flash around the stadium like a blinding Mexican Wave. Helicopters patrol the skies and gun towers rise up from the corners of the pitch. All eyes are on me. I try to ignore the razor wire and chained fences that seem to be moving closer to me like a python poised to strike. The second half starts and the jeers subside slightly as they see my unfazed strut and skilful feet. Respect for the man who doesn't let life get him down.

I try not to express any emotion to my opponents especially to those who foul me. I just get up and smile. The fact they cannot win the ball fairly is a compliment to my footballing skills. Like my dad always used to say: “Let your boots do the talking.”

Recognition ripples through the terraces as Number Ten confronts his fears with an iron fist and an attacking determination. My confidence is back and it grows with every touch and pass. The weight and pressure eases and I begin to smile. At long last, I play with a happy heart. This is my world and my game. This is my home.

I take it past one player with ease and delight, oh what a thrill as the crowd electrify the atmosphere. What a spectacle of sport. The right back is beaten with a soulful touch, and now it’s only the keeper to beat. No time to strike as I was chopped from behind. A penalty awarded and the crowd become mute, the score is one to the home side and for me that's nil.

I study the ball with a fixated glare as I hitch up my socks just under my knees. This routine is more for the keeper than me, but I still silently pray for a good strike this time, please, please, please. The crowd begin to stand revealing the faces of influential characters in my life. From around the world they came to witness this moment, this night. Who were they here to support, me or them? The razor wire is still closing in. I must score this penalty to gain my freedom, I must win.

Preparation complete, I take a deep breath and take my fateful steps towards the ball. The strike is sound as I follow through with my right foot making explosive contact which sends me into the air and the ball goal-bound. Time stands still. The keeper is arching towards his top right corner fingers stretching, under their protective gloves, inching towards a rendezvous, nano seconds away.

Then it was over. I awake in a cold sweat back in the fold of hospital life. Spasmodic shivers ease my return to normality. Was it a dream? No it was not. This is reality and the match has just kicked off.

©Simon London 2011

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