fusing, wouldn’t it have some sort of impact on my flexibility?”
“Indeed it would… a very considerable impact. You would have almost no flexibility, which is exactly the point, the state we require to prevent you becoming paraplegic.”
“But I need my flexibility. I can’t keep goal if I’m not flexible.”
For the first time his expression changed, so he wasn’t a robot.
“You can’t … what?”
“Keep goal,” I finished lamely, one eye on Shona, whose sympathy was dissolving into thin-lipped impatience.
“Keep goal?” asked the doctor. “I thought you worked as a removalist.”
“He does,” said Shona.
“You mean he did,” replied the doctor. “I think, Mr Judd, that you will have to find a new occupation … one which does not involve lifting, or strenuous physical activity.”
Obviously, they weren’t getting the message.
“I have an occupation. I keep goals. I’ve been invited to trial with Manchester United.”
Shona’s impatience finally boiled over, and she spoke in a threatening, teeth-clenched whisper: “Eric, for God’s sake! The doctor’s being serious here.”
“So am I,” I told her.
There was a bit of a silence, eventually broken by the doctor.
“Mr Judd, isn’t football a young man’s game?”
“I’m 39, doctor. That’s not so old for a keeper.”
“I see. And this keeping you do, does it involve much rough and tumble … contact with other players?”
“He flings himself around like a bloody maniac,” dobbed Shona.
“Well that settles it,” declaimed the doctor, one hand raised as though proclaiming holy writ.
“Whether you have or refuse the operation is up to you, Mr Judd.
However, I believe it would be foolhardy in the extreme for you to continue playing football given your back condition. Just one more knock could put you in a wheelchair for life.”
* * *
“What’s this?”
Shona stared at the rectangular piece of paper I had placed in her hand.
“It’s a cheque.”
“Why are you giving me a cheque?”
“It’s a deposit on a house. I know you’ve always wanted your own home.”
“Of course I do. But what are you doing?”
“I’m going to England.”
The cheque was for $200,000. I was keeping the rest of Jimmy’s legacy to get myself over to Manchester. Indeed, I had already booked the flight - Qantas business class. The only thing left to be done was remove “The Letter” from the frame in which I had kept it for the last 20 years.
Shona watched in silence as I pulled the frame off the wall and began tearing it to pieces.
“When are you going?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So this is it? You’re breaking up with me?”
It had been five weeks since the accident in the beer garden. I’d spent three days in hospital and had quickly become a laughing stock when news of my intention to play for Man United had gotten round (especially among the gay male nurses). But I was unaffected by their laughter and impervious to their medical wisdom. A fused spine meant the end of my career and the denial of Jimmy’s dying wish. In the weeks of my recovery, the decision I’d made on a Pethidine whim had hardened in my own mind, and I’d begun to plan, keeping my movements secret from Shona, for the sake of peace.
My first ever passport had arrived and I’d booked the flight. Early October was off-season, so there’d been a special on business class. It was less than $1000 more than standard economy, so what the fuck?I’ll be making heaps of money when I sign my contract.
To my great surprise, Shona burst into tears.
“I don’t want your money, Eric! I want you … and a normal life. I thought this money was our big chance, to be a normal couple!”
“I have to have a go, Shona. If I didn’t take up this chance, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering.”
“But you’re 40, Eric … 40 years old!”
“I’m 39. For six more days.”
“You’re 40! You’re a middle-aged crock with a broken back. When are you going to face reality?”
“Shona, this is reality. It’s always been my reality.”
She just stared at me, eyes red and puffy from tears, the cheque scrunched within her white-knuckled fist.”
“I can’t believe how selfish you are, Eric!”
HERE WE GO, ‘ERE WE GO, ‘ERE WE GO…
It was a rough night. There were tears, and I have to admit: I was starting to doubt my resolve. But I kept rereading Jimmy’s letter and, let’s face it, it was clear I wasn’t making Shona happy. I managed to find the strength to go.
But after the pain, there was a growing sense of freedom as I approached the international airport in a taxi - hoping that Jimmy was watching and approving from somewhere.
Despite my unfamiliarity with getting through Customs, it all happened fairly quickly and I made my way towards the Qantas Club, to which my business class ticket entitled me. But just before I got to the green marble entrance, I saw something which stopped me in my tracks.
A Manchester United goalkeeper’s shirt - 50% off. Another omen? Less than five minutes later, I was wearing the shirt with JUDD ironed onto the back and self-consciously presenting my boarding pass to the girl on the desk of the Qantas Club.
“Thank you, Mr Judd. Enjoy your flight.”
As a bloke who’s mostly earned his living carrying beds and boxes and getting paid about twelve bucks an hour, I have fairly hard-wired views about the exploitation of workers and the bastions of privilege set up for the exclusive enjoyment of the privileged elite.
That’s why I felt such a cunt when I walked into the Qantas Club. It was like Aladdin’s Cave. Tasteful and composed, soft lights and sofas arranged discreetly to maximise privacy and comfort - generous quantities of complementary food and drink - and immediately, I was guilty about the fact that I wasn’t queuing and bluing with the rest of the sweaty masses in the dayglo glare of the terminal proper.
Nevertheless,
