Fabrice Muamba: I'm Still Standing Page 16

  “Fabrice needs an ICD but he’s not keen,” she said. “Will you come and speak to him please and explain its importance. I will sort the flights out and pay for everything.”

  “You’re insulting me,” Khalilou replied. “I will happily come over. But I’m paying for the flights.”

  The way he visited me shows everything you need to know about how good a man he is but I still didn’t want the ICD. Khalilou spoke to me and told me it didn’t take long and that I wouldn’t feel a thing. He was straight and just told me how it was.

  Shauna also chipped away at me for hours at a time. But I thought – and I still think now – that God wants me to be here for longer. He won’t take me again. He doesn’t do half-miracles.

  But you know what women can be like when they won’t let it go! Shauna just kept on at me until I finally agreed to have it done.

  I was very quietly transferred to St Barts on April 12 for the operation with Professor Schilling, the man in charge of installing my so-called ‘seatbelt’.

  At St Barts there were a lot of African women working there and I soon became the flavour of the month. News soon got around that I was in for some treatment and one nurse came to me in my bed and said “we’ve all been praying for you” which was a lovely touch. But she then obviously went and told all her mates because before you knew it, one by one, every nurse in there seemed to walk through the doors to say hello!

  However, news never leaked to the media that I had switched hospitals and that was for the best at the time. I didn’t need any more attention, I just needed to go home.

  The next day Professor Schilling popped up to see me and told me it would be alright and I had total faith. This man was the best in the world and even if I didn’t truly want to have the operation, it was good to know I was being looked after so well. I spoke to dad and we prayed along with Shauna before I was then wheeled down for surgery. “Please, God, let’s just get this over with,” I said. “I want to get home as soon as possible.”

  I got into the theatre room and looked around and there were televisions on every wall, all ready to film what was about to happen. And as I lay there all I could think was ‘I could nick one of those TVs and put it in my house – they are awesome’.

  As you can tell, by this point I was beyond worrying. Cut me open, insert whatever is needed, sew me up, send me home. That is all I wanted to do.

  I remember the needle and then I was gone. I don’t really remember coming around although I knew I felt as bad as ever. Groggy, confused, scared. I remember thinking ‘I’ve been here before’.

  Nobody knows this but during the operation I suffered another cardiac arrest. On this occasion though there was no need to panic, it was all part of the process.

  In order to test the ICD, Professor Schilling and his team had to throw my heart out of line to check that the machine could throw me back in. It worked a treat.

  All the evidence so far points to me being ok and I pray to God that I will never need the back up. However, I suppose it is nice for it to be in there, ready and able to deliver a shock if it’s needed.

  Yet I believe that God is still my only real saviour. He is the only one who can save me if I have a repeat episode. Yes the medical staff were great, yes everyone who has been involved in my recovery has been unbelievable.

  But, ultimately, only God can help me.

  The ICD is an incredible invention but if it is my time to die again then I can’t argue with that.

  I was finally discharged from hospital on April 16 – almost a month after my incident and to be able to walk outside freely and happily was a feeling I cannot describe.

  A month in hospital is tough for anyone, especially someone used to being fit and strong, so to breathe fresh air along with Shauna was amazing.

  I said goodbye to Dr Sam with a handshake and a smile. He had become a friend by then and he was the man who answered more questions than anyone else about my time inside. The rest of the doctors, nurses and everyone else who also kept an eye on me deserve just as much praise and respect and I know Dr Sam himself wants the praise spread fairly across all those who helped me walk out of St Barts alive and well.

  It was time to go, it was time to get on with enjoying my family and friends. It was time to hear if all these rumours about my life turning upside down were true.

  It was time to live.

  #16

  One Last Shot

  ONE day when I was 10 me and my friends were looking for a game of football, just like we always used to do after school. We walked for miles until we ended up playing on a pitch inside an army camp. Camp Mobutu. Don’t ask me why we thought that was a good idea.

  On the camp there were not only soldiers but also their families. The sons of these soldiers were massive and had a tough mentality. They thought that just because their dads were in the army they were hard as well. We were playing on the pitch when some of these boys appeared. They told us to either leave the camp or take them on in a match.

  We were out of our comfort zone. This wasn’t our backyard and we felt a bit intimidated. I’m not ashamed to say I was really scared. I had a feeling that things could turn nasty.

  But we agreed to play and I managed to stay out of trouble. Nobody broke my leg, which was a bonus. I was playing at the back and after about 30 minutes I got the ball and ran through their team and scored. No-one will believe that but it’s true!

  It proved to be the winning goal. They couldn’t get an equaliser no matter how hard they tried. In the end, well past what must have been the 90 minutes, they just drifted off, because they were exhausted. My goal had been the winner. I’ll never forget it.

  We were so happy but we still had to get off the camp in one piece. They weren’t very happy with us. “Ok, we won so let’s be cool,” I said. We walked to the camp gates nice and slowly, our hearts beating big time until we got through – then we ran as fast as we could.

  In Congo, if you go to another area and beat a team then you all sing on your way back to your town. You sing to make them angry and jealous, to let them know that they’ve been beaten, that although they may try and act tough, in reality they’re not.

  We legged it until we were miles away. And then we started singing one of the usual songs that is translated something like this: “We’ve come to your area and won. You might think you’re a loud dog but you’re nothing. Next time, come to our area and challenge us – we will beat you again.” We were brave enough to sing – but only when we were miles away.

  That was one of my earliest football triumphs. Going in to the lion’s den and coming away as a winner. It felt so special.

  I’ve been on quite a football journey, from the Congo to the Premier League. It wasn’t easy in those early days. The bad pitches, no boots, the tougher older boys. When you’ve seen the rough then it makes you love the smooth. Grass, proper boots, a ball that doesn’t wobble – kids in Europe have it easier than they will ever realise. If you want to know why so many African players are so strong physically and mentally in professional football, then look at what they came from, what they’ve battled against to get to where they are.

  Next time you hear a kid moan because his boots aren’t brand new or his mate has a better shirt or whatever, take them to one side and tell them how lucky they are to have anything on their feet at all.

  #####

  The main priority after coming out of hospital was enjoyment. When I was discharged we didn’t return to Cheshire straight away because we knew the paparazzi were after us. That alone made my head spin. Why were they that bothered about me?

  Instead of going home we went back to the apartment Shauna had rented in London and stayed there for a few days. It was just perfect. We had some time to ourselves, we ate at Wagamama every day, we were on the way back to normality. Never underestimate how good the simple things in life are.

  We’d go for a walk every night at 11pm just to get out and to slowly build up my strength. I’d still b
e knackered in no time at all. Every night I’d try and reach a Tesco Express round the corner from the apartment before staggering back. I still had a lot of work to do, that much was clear.

  After a few days Warwick got us a car to our place in Cheshire and getting back home was no different for me than it is anyone else. I was back in my own bed, I could chill on my own couch, nobody was watching me, monitoring me, I didn’t have tubes and wires hanging out of my neck and nose and mouth and God knows where else. Making a cup of tea made me smile so much, watching the rain fall outside didn’t bother me anymore, listening to Joshua sleeping – all these things, these tiny things made me almost cry with the joy of simply being here.

  One of the guiltiest pleasures was getting my Blackberry back. I couldn’t use it in hospital but I wasted no time catching up with all my mates and everyone who had sent good luck messages. I had a lot of people to thank. Loads of people visited the house and Ivan was the first guy to come round. He brought a big bottle of champagne to celebrate my life. We laughed and joked. It was just so amazing to be able to do what I wanted. Loads of the Bolton guys said hello, all my neighbours asked how I was and I couldn’t go two minutes without a text from somebody telling me they were glad I was better.

  During those first few days of ‘freedom’ the issue of the rest of my career refused to go away. How could it? I was a professional footballer who had died on the pitch. There were some serious questions to answer.

  Football had been my life, my love. Something that had been with me throughout my early life in Congo and my new life in England. From winning at Camp Mobutu to holding my own at the highest level of the professional game. It had been a positive force through all the highs and lows.

  As I started to try and adapt to normal life, so many memories came flooding back. Playing week in and week out in the Premier League gives you so many highs. Like playing at Old Trafford. What a place. I don’t care what anyone says, it is tough playing there as one of the opposition. You feel like you’re in a fight between 10 people and 200. The chances of winning are very small. I remember walking down the tunnel when I first played there for Birmingham in January 2008 and I was thinking ‘Fabrice, boy, there is some serious stuff going on here’. It is a dream to be playing at such an arena.

  I bent down and touched the grass. Here I was, a boy from Congo, about to play at Old Trafford. Amazing. I never thought for one day that this could happen.

  The noise when they attacked was ridiculous – it was so annoying! You couldn’t hear yourself think. For 10 minutes you’re not your normal self. You look across at their side with the likes of Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs and you want to ask for their autograph, never mind tackle them, although you soon click out of that and remember your job on the pitch.

  I thought that I would love to step out at Old Trafford as a professional footballer again. Just once more. More memories kept flooding back. I even started thinking about the grounds I used to hate turning up at. How I would love to play there now.

  Places like Goodison Park. I hated that place. When they go 1-0 up, you really feel you’re going to lose. You just know it. I only won there once and couldn’t wait to get out of there. The fans are right on top of you and the noise is amazing. Credit to those supporters, they know how to get their players to react. But as an opponent it’s tough.

  You also have to give credit to the Geordie people. St James’ Park is like nothing on Earth. They know how to support their team well. They push their team forward. When I was at Birmingham, we beat them 5-1 in an FA Cup replay in January 2007 and I’ve never heard noise like it. You cannot shake the place off, the volume is incredible. When you walk on the pitch, you see the stand rising up to the sky and it takes you aback. Wow. One of the best grounds to visit but the worst to play at by a long way. Their fans are mental – beyond mental!

  Sunderland is another tough place to visit. When they score it’s like they get another three players – the effect it has is ridiculous. I’ve run around their pitch thinking ‘shut your mouth – just give me some quiet!’

  Then there’s Stoke City. Just mentioning the name makes me shiver. You don’t ever want to play at the Britannia Stadium and especially not when Rory Delap is bombing those throw-ins at you. Oh my God. The first time we played Stoke, Gary Megson said: “For 20 minutes, let’s do throw-ins.” 20 minutes? More like 20 hours! We needed to work on protecting Jussi so he could come out and get the ball for us. We got into the game and Rory let one go. Wow. Is this guy for real?

  I loved the different styles in the game. You’ll hear no complaints from me about their footballing style, what a job Tony Pulis has done for them. But you will hear plenty of complaints about the Britannia. Cold, windy, noisy and chaotic. A Tuesday night game there is the stuff of nightmares. Everything seems to go for them there.

  Playing at all these venues is why you play the game. It’s hard not to be overwhelmed with nerves and excitement but you just have to do your best. Take a deep breath, feel like you belong and go from there.

  When I first returned to Arsenal I was playing for Birmingham and it was a really strange sensation. I knew the game, just a week or so after playing at Old Trafford, was coming up – I’d searched for it early on when the fixtures came out – and I knew it would test my emotions.

  I’d grown up at the club, they had pulled me out of a normal life and given me this amazing opportunity to provide for myself and my family financially while living the dream of being a footballer.

  I knew I had to leave and I’ve never regretted that decision but going back there was always going to be a tough test. I knew every member of their starting XI that night – you can’t tell me that doesn’t have an emotional impact on you. It was different, I tried my best to concentrate but to play against the likes of Cesc Fabregas was always going to be hard. Arsenal were the club I had always wanted to play for. That was the dream. It didn’t work out and that is life. I was determined to show the club that I was a good player, a player they should’ve kept.

  As I stood in the tunnel at the Emirates preparing to go out, I remember thinking that here I was, once again, facing a trial at Arsenal. All those years ago Steve Leonard had told me to give it everything I had to try and impress and I had plans to do exactly the same again today – but this time against Arsenal instead of for them. It felt like I was being tested and that I had to make people sit up and realise the player and man I had become.

  I was proud of my performance that day and felt I played well as we managed to get a 1-1 draw. Emmanuel Adebayor gave Arsenal the lead with a penalty before Garry O’Connor equalised for us and we were well happy with a point. To get a result made the day even better. The scrawny kid who had dreams of running out at the Emirates every week was now a Premier League player for Birmingham City – and loving every minute of it.

  Of all the academy players taken on with me at Arsenal, I was the only one who managed to play in the Premier League. It just shows the level of dedication you need and the kind of person I am. If I was bad at something I HAD to work on it. I’d pushed myself to the limits to make my football dream come true.

  I’ve still got my first Arsenal shirt, it’s in the garage somewhere in a box, and I will get around to framing it one day. There is no doubt the club is in my heart – but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to beat them every time I faced them for Birmingham or Bolton.

  It’s not the only shirt I have. Vieira sent me a signed one for my 21st birthday. I never got the chance to play against him, which is a massive regret, but when he was at Inter Milan a parcel arrived one day that blew me away. ‘Happy birthday, my friend,’ the message on the shirt read. ‘Have a good day and enjoy yourself.’ That shows you the class of the man. I would love to have played against him – but you will have to ask other people whether they would’ve been able to tell the difference between us…

  I’d met so many good people, experienced so much camaraderie. It saddened me to think that I’d never s
hare in the dressing room banter again. All these emotions and memories were swirling around inside me at the time.

  #####

  Professor Schilling had already spoken to me about my professional career. It was during my recovery, when getting better was the only thing on my mind, never mind playing football again.

  He came into my hospital room to see me, along with Shauna and Dr Sam, and was as honest and as straight as can be.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this but I advise you to retire,” he said. “The tests we have taken show that you’re heart is improving but you will never be able to put yourself through the stress needed to play professional football.”

  I didn’t cry and neither was I surprised but after being discharged I had more time to think about it.

  Was it really the end? Was it really all over?

  One day I went to Euxton and it all hit home. I still had a key so I let myself in and went straight to my spot in the changing room. There was my locker. Right in front of me, my name in big letters:

  FABRICE MUAMBA

  I was stood in a deserted training room, the only noise being a tap dripping somewhere, and I prayed to God.

  ‘Please God, let me get back to do this every single day. I want this routine, I want this routine back.’

  I opened the locker and it was empty apart from some mail. Nothing else. No kit or boots which I was pleased about because I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t want more of a reminder of what I was missing.

  For a second the thought of a future without football terrified me. I knew Dr Schilling was right but I had to be 100 per cent sure before I called it a day.

  Perhaps there was a tiny glimmer of hope. Perhaps I would play again after all. I had to find out for sure.

  #17

  Blessed

  I SUPPOSE I knew deep down that my career was over because guys like Professor Schilling don’t make mistakes and on April 25 me, Shauna and Dr Tobin went down to St Barts to be told that officially.