46 – Just a little bit off the top

WARNING: contains graphic images.

Within next to no time of the Clegg Shield celebrations wearing off, Pat dropped the bombshell – he wanted to stop playing football.

We were stunned. Dean was too.

Off the back of the Clegg Shield, as well as the Evo defeat against South Liverpool where the opposition parents were congratulating Pat on his performance, it was totally unexpected. In fact, Dean had said in all the years of coaching players, he’d almost got a sixth sense about how they’re feeling about their football.

Dean said it looked like Pat was the exception to the rule, in that he had no idea he was feeling that way. No inkling at all. He said that in training sessions, Pat’s face still lit up when he made a good save and that he’d never known a lad want to keep the ball out of the goal with as much determination.

He’d also said that he was training and playing really well, so not likely to be suffering from a lack of confidence, which in turn can have you doubting yourself or your ability. Whenever I asked Pat, he just said he was enjoying coaching the other younger keepers but not the playing side of things. I asked Dean if he could have a word with him – maybe get to the bottom of it and hopefully change his mind about packing it in.

Independently of each other, Ciara, Dean and me had all used exactly the same phrase when we found out about him wanting to stop playing.

“What a waste.”

As a parent, you just want the best for your kids. When they take up a new sport or interest, you help however you can. I’ve never been much good at a lot of the things I’ve tried, but I was a goalie as a kid and I loved it. In the (many) years since then, I’ve seen how football has changed, specifically the role of the keeper and 10 or 11 years ago when Pat said he wanted to be a keeper, I’ve tried to help him however I could, even if it meant relearning a few things because goalkeeping was one of the few things I knew how to do.

To start with, it was giving him pointers before and after games – and encouragement during. Nothing too heavy, just bits I thought would help him improve his game and enjoy it more.

Then it was helping with his training and doing my coaching badge. I’d spend time thinking about how to push him a bit more by thinking up new drills. He’s had GK specific training with Chesterfield FC Development and then CYG Goalkeeping, as well as 1-2-1 sessions all at extra expense.

But let’s not confuse matters, for all the effort, we as his parents have put in, Pat has put endless hours of work in, week in week out. He’s always wanted to improve and be as good as he can be, so we’ve done what we can to help him.

The first time I saw him play I thought he had at least a little ‘natural ability’, just in the way he dived and how he landed. So if he enjoyed playing, why not help. In the same breath, I would hate anyone to think we’re pushy parents, or the types to make our kids do something they didn’t want to do. I suppose what I’m trying to say is, that for all the effort we’ve put in and the miles we’ve clocked up, that doesn’t have a bearing on him stopping playing.

His ability should do though.

I’ve seen him make great saves time and time again. I’ve seen forwards hold their head in their hands when they think they’ve scored but he’s made a save. I’ve heard parents and opposition coaches celebrating too prematurely because it’s looked a certain goal and he’s made an unbelievable save.

I think he could play to a decent level – but maybe I haven’t told him that enough? As his coach, I’ve always tried to help him with the shot that got away but should I have heaped more praise on him for the almost certain goals that he’s kept out?

Dean spoke to Pat to see if he could work out what the issue was. Having spoken to him, Dean thought it might be a combination of things which made him think he had too much on his plate and so had to drop something. They reached an agreement – Pat would stop playing and training with Evo while he was doing his GCSE exams and have a complete rest from football until he’d done his last exam. After that he’d see how he was feeling.

Dean’s only condition was that Pat and me would stay in touch with him while he was taking a break. Almost straight away it seemed like a weight had been lifted from him. He was more relaxed and had a smile back on his face (sometimes).

For the next few weeks, I made a point of not mentioning football or Evo. I didn’t want him to feel any sort of pressure from me. I also sort of came to terms with the idea of him not carrying on playing, preparing my head in advance. I honestly thought when he finished his exams, his decision could go either way. I couldn’t have called it.

As promised, we kept in touch with Dean. I kept forcing myself not to ask Pat what his thoughts were and everything just kept ticking over. Then, one Sunday morning, at a meeting with Dean (more of that at a later date), he just came out with it,

“What are your thoughts on next season Pat?” I held my breath.

“Yeah, I’m carrying on playing”, was his matter of fact reply.

Obviously, I was chuffed to bits. As much as I’d tried to prepare myself for him not playing any more, I wanted him to carry on. He was still going to stay away from Evo and football while he finished his exams but then he’d be back into it.

On the way home after the meeting, it was like a huge relief for both of us. When we got home, I had a list of jobs as long as your arm and Pat got changed and went to the gym. As I got on with my jobs around the house, the sense of relief stayed with me.

About an hour into dismantling furniture and shifting it from one room to another, my phone rang. It was Pat. “I think I need to go to hospital. Can you take me?” I didn’t get the full story there and then, I just went to pick him up but it sounded like he’d managed to trap his finger and his nail had come off. When he came out of the gym, it was obvious that it was the ring finger on his right hand, as the gym people had dressed it for him.

As he got into the car, conscious of all the jobs I still had to do, I asked him if it was definitely a ‘hospital job’? Pat replied that the guy in the gym who’d put the dressing on it said he 100% needed to get it looked at. So off we went to A&E.

I parked the car and we walked up to the entrance, at which point I realised we only had one face mask between us – at this point Covid restrictions were still in place – I told Pat to go and get checked in while I walked back to the car to get another mask. Before I’d even got back to the A&E entrance, Pat rang me to say he’d been told to go next door to the Fracture Clinic. So I met him there. I was sat in the waiting room, when he came out with his finger freshly dressed but with tears in his eyes. I told him not to be too upset and that it would just take a little while for the nail to start growing back.

As it turned out, the tears were because it wasn’t just the nail that he’d lost but also the tip of his finger.

Rewind a couple of hours. At the gym he’d been doing squats with a bar and weights on his shoulders. Then his leg had cramped up and he’d stumbled backwards, trapping his finger between the bar and the rack. As he’d fallen back, he’d pulled his hand away but not quite in time to avoid his finger being trapped.

I didn’t know what to say. Any thoughts of some comforting words felt very hollow as they went round in my head. When we got home, he went for a lie down on his bed. Ciara and me kept checking on him to make sure he was ok. At the hospital he’d been given some strong painkillers and antibiotics for any infection, so as we were checking on him, we were also checking the times he was due to take his tablets.

A couple of hours passed and we asked if he wanted anything to eat. Standard response from him and he made his way downstairs. The dressing on his finger was soaked in blood.

Before we’d left the hospital, they’d asked us to make an appointment for the following day at the Hand Clinic but with the state of the dressing we decided he couldn’t wait until then, so I took him to A&E again. On the first visit, everything had been really well organised, seemed to take no time at all and without too much fuss, we were on our way home.

The second trip was almost the opposite. As we were only going for the dressing changing, I thought it wouldn’t take long. How wrong can you be?

As before, Pat went to the desk, explained the problem and was directed next door to the Fracture Clinic. So, round we went. We sat in exactly the same seats as I’d been waiting in a few hours earlier. There was nobody else around. I could just hear a couple of voices. They were discussing ‘Stranger Things’. At length.

We waited. And waited.

As you do, when your kids aren’t well, I was getting a bit fidgety and frustrated. With the amount of chatting they were doing, it was obvious they weren’t particularly busy and they could be sorting Pat’s dressing out.

I walked round to see where the voices were coming from. It was almost 8pm. I explained why we were there, just to get his dressing replaced.

“We can’t do that. We’re closing now.”

I explained we’d be sat waiting nearly half an hour after being sent from A&E.

“Yes, that’s where you need to go back to. A&E.”

Brilliant.

We walked back round to A&E and sat at the reception desk. “You all sorted?” Pat raised his hand. The girl looked surprised. “Oh. Right. You’ll have to take a seat then.” So we did. And we waited. And waited.

After an hour, I went back to the desk to ask if they had any idea how long we were likely to be waiting. I hadn’t finished my sentence when a nurse came through a side door and shouted Pat’s name. When we got through the door and into the cubicle, the nurse asked what the problem was. I explained. She looked confused.

“So you’ve been here all that time?”

“Since about 7.15.”

“7.15 tonight? I don’t understand.” She looked confused.

I repeated that we’d simply come for his dressing to be changed. She was under the impression that Pat must have needed to see other doctors or nurses and couldn’t understand why he hadn’t just been sent through earlier for such a simple process. I shrugged my shoulders. “You and me both.”

She was very apologetic. I was just happy she was going to sort the dressing out. It turned out to be quite a bit of messing about because the amount of dry blood meant that she couldn’t get the dressing away from his finger. I waited in the cubicle while she took Pat away to soak the dressing, to allow it to come away from his skin.

He came and sat back down while the nurse was getting some scissors.

“Don’t look at it Dad. Don’t look at my finger when she gets the dressing off. It doesn’t look very good.”

The nurse came back in with the scissors and all I could think about was looking at his finger. If he’d not said anything, I probably wouldn’t have looked. Right on cue, the nurse managed to cut the dressing off, then disappeared again to find a bandage. She’d covered his hand with a large gauze dressing. I was sat at the side of him.

“Let’s have a look.”

“Are you sure?”

“Err. Yes. I think so.”

He lifted the gauze up. Straight away I went all warm and clammy. I even felt a bit dizzy. There’s no denying it, it didn’t look good. As the nurse reappeared, I just about managed to compose myself and not throw up.

Once the clean dressing had been applied, the nurse explained that she was working until 6am the following morning and that if Pat had any more issues between now and then and we needed to go back to A&E, we should ask for her specifically and she’d make sure she saw him straight away. We thanked her and left. We got home at about five to ten.

Apart from the obvious worry about his finger and how it would heal, the next concern was that he would be sitting his GCSE’s in just over a week. With it being his writing hand, we were worried if he’d be ok writing. Thankfully, he just about managed.

Over the next 6 weeks or so, Pat went to the Hand Clinic every Monday for them to check on how his hand was healing. From the second visit onwards, it felt like progress was being made because the end of his finger was stitched up and then the surgeon did some repair to the nail bed of his finger.

Throughout all the visits to hospital, Ciara went with Pat. My Dad revived his last job before retirement, taxi driver. In my job, I’m often away from our yard and quite often I’m on sites, especially on Monday mornings, so Ciara and my Dad were running here, there and everywhere to get Pat to his appointments.

As his finger healed more and more, Pat was helping it along the way by pulling away dry blood and dead skin. At the Hand Clinic he was given exercises to do to make sure the skin stayed flexible. In the last few weeks, the healing came on really well. He said the finger still felt sore if he bumped it, even slightly, but other than that, everything seemed to be going ok.

So, if your own young goalkeeper suffers some freak minor accident, it’s not that easy at times but try to keep the faith.