I laid, spread-eagled on the floor, watching an endless replay of my life. Watched over again as the love of my life stormed out, taking my 2 year old son with her... how old was he now? 16? My grasp on reality was slipping away, followed swiftly by conciousness.
I watched, helpless, as I relived the last five minutes of my mother's life. Broken, Ailing. I heard the doctor's words more clearly than ever before, as they told me my last rock in this world was gone.
I relived every whiskey, every hangover, every day in that hospital bed, every concerned look from the doctors and surgeons as they considered my future...What was that future? From where I lay, it was looking bleak.
With one last sigh, I closed my eyes, letting the darkness grip me and pull me into sleep.
And then I awoke. The blinding white of the hospital light burnt my retinas, as a surgical mask appeared above me. After some prodding, he vanished again, leaving me to my own devices.
They were limited, my devices. I knew, straight away, that any sort of recovery would be difficult. On the television at the other end of the room, I heard the unmistakable sounds of football coverage.
I struggled to pull myself upright, and watched intently. I'd never been a fan of football, but as Barcelona passed their way through Villareal over, and over again, I couldn't help but be fascinated...the way the players moved, the way they kept the ball, tired out the opposition defence, and all of a sudden turned the attack into an incisive direct chance was incredible.
Over the next three months, I watched a lot of football. As I regained feeling in my arms, I had to relearn a lot of motor skills, and I re-taught my hands how to write by making a note of all the things i'd noticed about how different managers played their football. I broadened my horizons, watching some Serie A, some Australian A-League, the Premier League, and even some of the Scottish games.
I watched, helpless, as I relived the last five minutes of my mother's life. Broken, Ailing. I heard the doctor's words more clearly than ever before, as they told me my last rock in this world was gone.
I relived every whiskey, every hangover, every day in that hospital bed, every concerned look from the doctors and surgeons as they considered my future...What was that future? From where I lay, it was looking bleak.
With one last sigh, I closed my eyes, letting the darkness grip me and pull me into sleep.
And then I awoke. The blinding white of the hospital light burnt my retinas, as a surgical mask appeared above me. After some prodding, he vanished again, leaving me to my own devices.
They were limited, my devices. I knew, straight away, that any sort of recovery would be difficult. On the television at the other end of the room, I heard the unmistakable sounds of football coverage.
I struggled to pull myself upright, and watched intently. I'd never been a fan of football, but as Barcelona passed their way through Villareal over, and over again, I couldn't help but be fascinated...the way the players moved, the way they kept the ball, tired out the opposition defence, and all of a sudden turned the attack into an incisive direct chance was incredible.
Over the next three months, I watched a lot of football. As I regained feeling in my arms, I had to relearn a lot of motor skills, and I re-taught my hands how to write by making a note of all the things i'd noticed about how different managers played their football. I broadened my horizons, watching some Serie A, some Australian A-League, the Premier League, and even some of the Scottish games.
