5 October 2005
‘Shall we interview you here,’ the presenter suggests, ‘with the team warming up behind you?’
The team.
The football thing hasn’t blown over. The opposite: six months down the line from that chat in the pub, The Unbeatables are preparing for their first competitive match.
‘So, can you start by telling us about your rather unusual football squad?’
I’ve thought about exactly what to say in advance, so my brain doesn’t get overloaded. Even though it’s nearly five years ago, I haven’t forgotten how badly my first TV appearance went.
‘We’re called The Unbeatables and we’re a mixed bag of players, men and women, all ages, and a range of abilities. But we’ve got two things in common. One, we love football. Two, we’ve had heart problems and that’s what brought us together. Four of us have technically died – our hearts actually stopped – but we’ve come back from that. So whatever happens when we play our first matches next week, we’re always going to be unbeatable. That’s how we got our name.’
‘And this is a subject that’s literally close to your own heart, right? Tell me about that.’
‘I had a cardiac arrest in 2000 and it ended my football career. I’d played for the Dolphins Under 23s and I dreamed of playing in the Premiership. So do most boys, but in my case, it was so, so close. And that was very disappointing.’
The presenter nods off-camera but doesn’t ask another question, expecting me to keep talking. And as the light shining in my face dazzles my eyes, I know my answer was glib and I get this mad urge to tell the truth.
‘OK. More than disappointing. When my heart let me down, it was the end of everything. I couldn’t see that I’d been given another chance, that I was lucky. Instead I felt like a dead man walking.’
I’m not seeing the presenter and the cameraman and the sound man anymore. Instead, I feel as though I’m talking to Kerry.
‘People went out of their way to help me but I threw it back in their faces. Got into trouble. Hurt my friends, family members. I was selfish and a lot of what I did was unforgivable.
‘But the guys behind me . . . they’re not like that. They’re brave and strong and they’ve come together to create something amazing. Watch them play, see the joy it gives them. What doesn’t kill you really does make you stronger. And I want to thank them for showing me how crazy I’ve been for turning my back on what was once my whole world. Being in this team has reminded me why I love football so much. It’s more than a game. It’s life.’
The presenter nods.
There’s your soundbite.
I am not telling the whole truth. Leo, not football, is my reason for living, but he’s too precious to share. Being his dad is not only the toughest thing I’ve ever done, it’s also the most important.
But football is allowed to come second.
The presenter calls the next day. I know enough about TV to ask straight away if they’re dropping the piece.
‘No, it’s the opposite. When we viewed the rushes, we were blown away. We’d like to follow you guys all the way through your first season for our regional documentary slot.’
I say yes, because of the others. But when the camera crew come back, I’m much more careful about what I say, because I want to protect Leo, and myself.
Transmission is two days before Leo’s birthday and four days before Christmas, so the programme couldn’t matter less to me. Mum has abandoned her sophisticated decor preferences and gone full tinsel, so the house looks like a cross between a Turkish bazaar and an infants’ school hall.
Her love for Leo has helped me understand her more. What producers and directors have seen as stroppiness is really the fierce tenacity of someone who fought her way out of poverty, and will fight to keep her family above water, no matter what.
I hold my squirming son in my arms as he points at the red and green garlands. Suddenly I realize Leo will probably end up going to the same primary school as me. How weird and amazing it’s going to feel to drop him off at the gates on his first day . . . I know he might struggle academically, but he’s already doing better than we were told to expect.
I’m in the kitchen when the doorbell rings. Sounds like carol singers and Mum heads off to answer it. In her new-found grandmotherly mode, she’ll probably bung them twenty quid to do an entire concert for Leo in our entrance hall.
But moments later, the kitchen is full of Unbeatables.
‘Surprise!’ Luke says, pushing a bottle of wine into my hand. He’s made so much progress since we started playing, even going back to work part-time.
Mum has set up Dad’s snug as a viewing room, pulling down the massive screen like we’re going to watch a movie. As we take our seats, I’m slightly irritated by the fuss. Yet as the title music plays, and she plonks Leo on my lap, the others seem so excited that it’s started to rub off on me . . .
‘Football is a beautiful game,’ the presenter says as she stands outside the entrance to the pitch where we train, ‘and it’s usually played by beautiful people like Beckham: super-fit, young players who often model in their spare time.
‘But in this ground, there are players who won’t be getting any modelling contracts any time soon. Some are old, some are carrying a few extra pounds, most are out of condition.’
‘Oi!’ Steve shouts out. ‘That’s plain rude.’
‘. . . one thing in common. They’ve all cheated death. It’s a feat more impressive than a hat-trick. But as they prepare for their first ever season as a team, will The Unbeatables meet their match? Let’s find out . . .’
Mum and I exchange a glance, raising our eyebrows at the cheesiness of the script. No one else seems to mind: they cheer as the shot changes to reveal all of us, in our full out-of-condition glory.
‘But they do have a secret weapon,’ the voiceover says, as the camera zooms in on me.
Ugh.
When the presenter introduces me, my teammates cheer and I feel like a fraud. I swig my alcohol-free beer, wishing it was the real thing.
In my lap, Leo has stopped wriggling. He faces the screen and as the shot lingers on me, his arm rises and he points a chubby finger.
‘Dadda!’ he says and turns his head back towards me and does a double take. ‘Dadda!’ He sounds confused and I hold my breath, in case he starts sobbing in that inconsolable way that always breaks my heart.
But as he repeats the action – looking at the screen, then me – I hear the best sound in the world.
Leo starts to laugh, and I join in along with everyone else, and it was almost worth all the filming for the joy and love in this moment.
I have missed knowing I belong.
On Leo’s first birthday, I text Zoë but it comes back as undelivered.
He has a brilliant day, and a terrible day, and a boring day and a sleepy day: all normal for him and us.
When I finally put him to bed, I watch him sleep. It is the calm after the storm, his perfect face lit by the nightlight, his eyelids flickering as he dreams. This love is bigger than anything I’ve ever felt or can imagine feeling.
This time last year . . . no, don’t go there. Don’t punish yourself by thinking what might have been, if you’d only played things differently.
I don’t want Kerry back. Bollocks. That’s a lie. I do, I probably always will, but she’s made her choice. Yes, there were times over the summer when I was so tempted to drive round there, talk to her in person, even introduce her to Leo. Then my mother heard from someone in the shop that Tim’s mum had died of cancer and I knew it was time to move on.
I lean in close to kiss Leo’s forehead and his breath warms my face. If Kerry hadn’t pushed me, I might have thought the love I shared with her was the only kind there is.
But what I feel for my son has made realize this is the love that I needed to give and receive. This is the love that has healed my dysfunctional heart.