Fabrice Muamba: I'm Still Standing Page 2

  We just sit and relax before arriving at our hotel in Regent’s Park in St John’s Wood. Business as usual once more. On a Friday, after our evening meal, the gaffer likes to get us all together for a chat about what lies ahead. Pasta and meatballs is on the menu – along with plenty of water – and that gives us the boost we need before a match, even if it doesn’t come close to Shauna’s efforts earlier in the day!

  Owen gives a short presentation on what we need to do the following afternoon. We already know that Spurs are likely to be tough because they are so strong at home. Luka Modric and Scott Parker are playing brilliantly for them. The boss, Harry Redknapp, is doing a great job, their team spirit is clearly high and he has the right balance in his squad. He knows how to put the different pieces together.

  It will be a difficult evening.

  When I am mentally preparing for a game, however, I always concentrate on myself more than the opposition. The minute I start worrying and focusing on our opponents is the moment I lose focus and the moment I start giving the game away. My own match is all that matters – let the rest take care of itself. Push yourself, compose yourself, be the best you can be. That is what these talks from the gaffer are all about and that is what we are all trying to do.

  After the meeting, Jhamal John, a London barber I know, comes round to cut my hair in my room. He’s been a mate for about five years, he looks after people like Daniel Sturridge, Theo Walcott, Zat, Shaun Wright-Phillips and Johan Djourou and always does a good job. So much for the endless glamour of being a Premier League footballer. The night before a game can be as normal and as boring as getting your head trimmed.

  After this is done, I speak to my dad and Shauna again and pray with them both, asking God for protection and safety. I’m so desperate to play well and I know God can help me.

  ‘God, please let me perform to my best, let me and my team-mates prosper.’

  I just want to get out there and win and praying leads to playing, or at least I think it does. Afterwards I relax in my room and use the internet on my phone. Soon, sleep comes. I sleep really well, as always.

  #####

  Saturday morning and matchday is here at last. I wander down to breakfast at 9.30am and see the physio, Andy Mitchell, or ‘Mitch’ as we know him, club masseur Harry Brooke, who is a really great guy, and all the players. I sit with Martin Petrov and we discuss the TV from the night before, share a few laughs and just relax. By now I can’t wait for the game to come but it’s a 5.30pm kick-off and I have a few hours to kill. I decide not to go for a walk and go back to my room, waiting for the pre-match meal, saving mental energy, keeping my nerves in check. I make another quick phone call to my dad, who I’ve secured a match ticket for, and also Shauna.

  We say our final prayers together before I have to leave the hotel. On the day of a game there is an itinerary to follow. What time you have to be in reception, ready to go and so on. Some people think all the players’ doors are knocked on or that we have a chaperone to help us but that’s rubbish. You have to take care of yourself and that is the way it should be.

  I make sure I make it to reception on time before the gaffer starts handing out any fines. I pay £15 for the internet I’ve used in the room. Not the club. I pay for it myself. Like I say, it’s good for you as a person if you have to take responsibility for things you have used. Why should footballers be any different?

  Getting to White Hart Lane is no more eventful than any other journey to a ground. I sit near the back of the bus on my own, collecting my thoughts, refusing to get too excited too early, keeping myself to myself, working out how to be the best I can be.

  After signing for a ticket for my dad, my brother Daniel and my ‘cousin’ Alvin – he’s one of those cousins who’s not actually related but is the son of one of your dad’s best mates – I start to focus on what we need to do as a team. The dressing room is covered in plans and tactics. Plans for what we do when defending corners, plans for how to counter Redknapp’s attacking play, plans for how to get out of London with a safe passage into the semi-finals of the FA Cup and another visit to Wembley.

  The pitch looks in great condition so I decide to wear my studs rather than my moulded boots. I want my feet to be sharp and I prefer studs. These are the minor details that you piece together to give yourself half a chance when it’s time to go to war. My white Nike Tiempo boots are ready.

  As I walk around the pitch, I listen to my headphones and relax. On this day, I decide that gospel music is what I want to listen to. Everybody is different and feels the need to get hyped up in different ways. I prefer to stay nice and calm and gospel music allows me to do that. There are probably not many Premier League players who listen to gospel music but a lot of people lose their identity when they enter the football world. They seem to forget where they are from, who they are and what they stand for as an individual. I am a Christian so I need to represent Christ. I listen to rap as well and I enjoy it but gospel music just so happens to help me the most. I need music that is dedicated to God on this day. It is my choice.

  White Hart Lane is practically empty at this point before we head back in to listen to the gaffer officially announce his starting XI. I am in there and I can’t wait to get out and express myself. This is my reward for training hard and being patient. I’m determined to do well for the team and prove to the gaffer that I’m good enough to start every game. Every player uses that as a motivation and I’m no different. I want to keep the shirt for the next match. Once I have it, it’s my possession to keep or lose – you can only give your shirt away, nobody can take it off you.

  I’m waiting. I’m ready. Kick-off is coming.

  I have to make the most of my chance. While I get my ankles strapped, in preparation for the battle ahead, Shauna is miles away, at home in Cheshire. She is having a long day. She’s taken our son, Joshua, to a birthday party all afternoon and watched him run around like the fun-loving three-year-old he is. It’s now time to watch daddy enjoying his Saturday as well.

  All around me people begin getting massages while I start to feel super-focused and ready. The dressing room looks and smells no different to a Sunday League version, all ointments and sticky tape, noise and adrenaline.

  With an hour to go before kick-off, the music begins as everyone starts trying to put their selections on the main speakers. We have a special match compilation that we play before the game, full of recent hits and tunes that will get us going. At least that keeps the arguments down over who gets to play what.

  I don’t want to get too excited. It’s a balancing act. I want to stay as mellow as possible. I don’t want to blow mental energy on something as stupid as the pre-match tunes. It’s about staying level-headed and finding your peace of mind and getting ready for the warm-up. Boxer shorts first, then shorts, warm-up top, socks and boots. That is my method. There is no superstition involved in that, it’s just the way I am as a person.

  Our fitness coach, Jimmy Barrow, leads us in the warm-up, getting our muscles loose and warm, making us sprint over ladders and between cones, tightening our reactions and getting our brains in tune with our bodies.

  Some people don’t understand how important it is to stretch your mind as well as your body before a match. The two need to be working together if you want to start a game well. We get involved in small passing drills and I feel fine.

  I still have no idea about what lies ahead. Nothing. I could never be prepared for what is about to happen to me.

  We return to the dressing room for one final preparation just five minutes before kick-off. Everybody is dripping with sweat as the room starts steaming up. We all dry ourselves off before swapping our training tops for our matchday shirts, absorbing and listening to the gaffer’s final words of advice as well as taking on board the experience of the senior players.

  Kevin Davies has always been a brilliant leader and before this match he is no different, speaking his mind as he ties his boots, letting us know what he expects from Spur
s and what he expects from us. Some teams love shouting before a match while others are more analytical, talking about keeping clean sheets and what each person has to do. No two dressing rooms are the same.

  At Bolton everyone chips in when something needs to be said and the senior players lead by example. Zat, Nigel and Martin all keep us in a good frame of mind and get us ready for the game. Two minutes before we go out Owen has his final say before we head for the pitch. He wants us to defend well, stay positive and take our chances. Owen is a good man to play for and you can see how much he wants us to do ourselves justice.

  In the tunnel, the mood switches into work mode. Now it’s time to do my job. If I know someone on the other side I will shake their hand and check they are ok but nothing more than that. Mainly I’m a quiet person. I always prefer to say nothing unless I need to, especially just before the game. I want my football to talk for me.

  The pre-game rituals pass with a blur. I’m not worried about anything at all. I’m ready. Let’s get on with the action. This is it. This is my chance.

  Howard Webb gets the game underway, I settle in nice and quickly before I try to take more control as my confidence grows.

  Suddenly we’re in the lead. Goal. Great start. Nelsen gets a touch to Ricketts’ cross and puts off Walker, who concedes a corner. The ball is played to the near post and Pratley gets a head to the ball. It flicks off Bale’s shoulder and beats Cudicini. 1-0. Just the start we wanted. The game starts again. There is no let-up. Both teams going toe to toe. I show quick feet in the middle of the pitch but Miyaichi can’t force his way down the flank.

  In the dugout, our club doctor Jonathan Tobin is having the time of his life. The 41-year-old, a huge Spurs fan, is sat at White Hart Lane watching the men he knows and respects medically facing the men he knows and admires personally.

  He turns to Jimmy Barrow and mentions how fortunate he is. “Jimmy,” he says, “can you believe we’re getting paid for this? I’m at White Hart Lane, in the dugout watching my team. This is ridiculous. Does it get any better?”

  How quickly life can change. How quickly life can end.

  Then, another goal. An equaliser. Our early lead is gone in no time at all. Bale is full of power and pace, a constant threat down the left. He delivers a cross to the back post. Walker towers into the sky. Above Alonso. His header flashes past Bogdan. 1-1. We must fight, give everything tonight. Give everything for Wembley.

  They have some really quick players and I know that when they counter-attack I have to get back as soon as possible. That is constantly on my mind.

  If Bale gets past me I will have to bring him down if that’s what it takes to stop him. That’s life at the tough end of football. Sometimes you have to sacrifice yourself for the team. That’s just the way the game is played. If that means a yellow or even a red card then I’ll just have to take my medicine.

  After about 25 minutes I get a slight tingly headache. It doesn’t last more than two minutes and then I completely forget about it. There is no reason to be fearful or overly worried about it. The pace of this game is so quick, I have no time to think about anything other than the situation in front of me.

  If you can ignore the crowd’s chants and all the verbals launched at you at every away ground in the country, you can ignore something as minor as a headache. I shrug it off. I get on with the game.

  Then, I have a chance. A minute after Petrov shoots wide, we come forward again. Petrov crosses but Miyaichi can’t get to the ball. But we win a corner. Petrov takes it and all of a sudden I have an opportunity. The ball is fed in low to me. Just as I am about to let fly, I slip. The ball flies high into the stands. Chance gone. Spurs have let the pace drop a little. I push up as we build from right to left. Pratley gets inside the box and squares for me. I take a touch. There is no time. The space has gone.

  Now I feel another headache. Different to the one before. It is stronger, much more painful.

  There is nothing I can do to stop it. For the first time in my playing career I think I will need half-time pills to get me through. Either that or a new head.

  My skull feels like it is being crushed, the right side is proper agony and my vision begins to play tricks on me. Now I’m standing in the middle of the pitch feeling very, very dizzy.

  It hits home that this isn’t something normal. My vision is going. Everything is blurred. Through the pain I begin to realise I have never had a headache like this before in my life.

  I just want to get to the break and get myself sorted.

  I hope Dr Tobin can give me something or spray me with something that will make it all go away. Before I can think further about getting any treatment, Bale is once again flying down the left wing.

  I hear Zat calling my name, his frantic shouts of “COME BACK, COME BACK” breaking through the fog in my head.

  As much as I want to sprint back my legs are refusing to listen. They know something I don’t.

  All of a sudden Spurs have got two Luka Modrics and two Scott Parkers.

  What is happening to me?

  A split second later my head smashes into the White Hart Lane turf. As it bounces once I am alive. By the time it bounces twice I am dead. I am gone. And the last words I had heard were “come back”.

  I couldn’t have put it better myself.

  #2

  Living A Dream

  I STAGGER home. I’m covered in sweat and dust and sporting the odd bruise or two. Again. Same old story. The ball’s tucked under my arm and my schoolbag is flung over my shoulder, following behind me.

  “Where have you been?” asks mum. She is angry.

  “I’ve been out, playing football after school,” I reply, as if she didn’t know.

  “What about your food? You haven’t eaten again. This is no good Fabrice, this can’t go on.”

  This is the childhood scene that would be replayed time and time again. As soon as I left school at midday, I would be off to find a game and I’d just ignore meal times and anything else mum said. Football was the only thing on my mind. I loved it. We didn’t really have pitches, we used to just play on sand and gravel wherever we could find it. We didn’t know anything else and we thought we were the luckiest kids alive. I went to Mokengeli Literary High School until lunchtime and would then go out with my mates, walking wherever we needed to try and find a game of football against anyone who wanted to take us on.

  I’d be gone for hours, picking different boys up from different avenues along the way. The closest pitch to mine was about 20 minutes away but even calling it a pitch is a stretch because there were no markings or goalmouths. We just had to use our brains and we always kind of knew how far the ball could go before it went out of play. We didn’t need goals because we just played for sheer fun. It wasn’t scoring that mattered, it was about playing with your friends and being outside.

  We used to play barefoot and mum would go crazy. My feet and legs would be badly cut all the time. Kicking the ball on stones and sand meant you couldn’t avoid getting shredded ankles and toes.

  “Stop doing that, I’ve told you,” she would say. “Every day is the same.” It was the only time I ever ignored her because I loved playing so much, I just loved the freedom and the laughter. Playing football made us all closer as friends.

  In many ways, my upbringing was a typical African football story. We never actually played with a proper football. What we used to do was get a balloon, blow it up, wrap about 10 shopping bags and loads of rags around it to give it some weight and then tie it all together with strong laces to keep it all together. The older boys used to make it and I would sit there amazed at their skill.

  They would be so patient, taking their time to try and get the shape of a proper ball. They would even tie the laces on top in such a way that it looked like the ball had real panels and patterns. I was taught how to do it but I was never that good so I used to leave it up to the others. Everyone in Congo did the same thing. The ball wouldn’t be perfect but it was better than
nothing. It would take a rough bounce here and there but that just added to the fun. When the rags and laces and everything else came undone we just made another one. Nothing was going to stop us playing.

  I remember so well the first time I played with a proper football. Wow. I was 10 years old and a guy I knew had a brother who lived in Europe. He came back one day with a present – an Adidas Telstar! It’s the ball that is designed with the black and white panels on it. It was love at first sight. Oh my God, I was so jealous.

  My friend didn’t want anyone to play with the ball, he wanted to keep it nice and fresh. But I couldn’t keep quiet and soon told everyone that we could be playing with a real, proper, perfect ball.

  He wouldn’t bring it out but I just wouldn’t shut up and in the end, he brought it with him to our pitch. I’ve never been so excited. Is this what the kids in Europe play with? Is this how lucky those guys are? Get me to Europe now! It was just so different. The smell, the way it moved, how easy it was to shoot and pass with. When you hit a straight pass it went straight, it didn’t wobble to one side like our footballs did. The more he brought it the more we enjoyed it. Sometimes, he would only bring it on a Saturday. That meant the six other days of the week we went back to our own raggy ball, but that just made us appreciate it even more. We would count down the days until we played with the Telstar again.

  I just couldn’t get enough of football when I was young. When France won the World Cup in 1998 I remember watching it and becoming obsessed with that team. Patrick Vieira, Zinedine Zidane, Thierry Henry, Robert Pires – wow. I remember one game where Henry was brilliant and I got out of bed the next day and I had an announcement for all my friends.